Chuck Amuck
by Zettel
Summary: What if the Intersect had been...different? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go? A reconception of the show.
1. Prelude One: The Unbirthday Present

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go? A reconception of the show.

Fasten your seatbelts.

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Don't own _Chuck. _I am saying that just this once. It applies to all future posts.

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**Chuck Amuck**

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PRELUDE ONE

**The Unbirthday Present**

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Chuck Bartowski sent Morgan Grimes home. Chuck's sister Ellie's birthday party for him had been a taffy-pull nightmare, endless; he was profoundly unhappy, exhausted. Morgan, his best friend, made it just bearable. Ellie's female friends, dispatched like reluctant soldiers toward pillbox Chuck, had only made Chuck more aware of the memory of Jill. Eventually, Chuck deserted the party, routed, and went to his bedroom.

The memory was a jagged ice cube lodged in his throat, chilling his chest, choking him, unmelting. Cold. He could not make conversation with any of the women without coughing Jill's name up, icy spittle on their talk. Repulsed, they all retreated in haste. Ellie was not happy. Not happy. Unhappy.

Chuck sent Morgan home before going back into the apartment. He knew that if Morgan came in, they would end up playing video games until the wee hours. Chuck had a Buy More shift the next day and he was depressed - depressed in that strange way made him want to be more depressed, not less. So, he sent Morgan home and sank bodily into his misery.

Chuck was on his bed, staring blankly at the _North By Northwest _poster on his wall. _Cary Grant. _ _Eva Marie Saint. _Beautiful blondes. Hitchcock had a thing for them. _Grace Kelly. Kim Novak. Grace Kelly. Eva Marie Saint. Grace Kelly. _Chuck recalled technicolor Grace Kelly gauzed in the black and white cocktail dress of _Rear Window. _He shook his head. That wasn't going to get him anywhere but in trouble. Unrelief. "_Leg or thigh?" No, wait - that was To Catch a Thief, not Rear Window. Cary Grant, not Jimmy Stewart. Grace Kelly._

Chuck rolled over onto his stomach. Uncomfortable. _Leg or thigh_. _Cocktail_. Not a good word. He squeezed his pillow and closed his eyes. His loneliness - five grinding sandpaper years of it - was now like an old, constant irritation. Not quite unitchy, not quite unignorable. Somewhere in between, a nagging torment. _Not quite_: the motto of his damned life. His sister and Morgan, Ellie's boyfriend, Devon: they were great. But they did not fill the Jill-shaped, brunette-colored hole in his life, his yearning for a heart's companion, someone to love romantically, not just as a sister or a friend. Chuck had no idea what he wanted to do with his life or who he wanted to share it with. No idea. None. No clue why he was thinking about blonde Hitchcock leading ladies. He needed to stop thinking about Grace Kelly and start coming up with a plan, that five-year plan he was always talking about but never formulating. No idea. No clue. No plan. Nothing. He was, metaphorically if not literally, collecting dust, the by-product of all the nothing that surrounded him. Dust: the dandruff of nothing.

His computer beeped. _Damn thing_. He thought he had turned off all the notifications. It beeped again. Chuck took a deep breath in through his nose and blew it out his mouth, almost a whistle. _Beep_. He rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. _Beep_. He tried to recollect Grace Kelly asking "Leg or thigh?" but he couldn't get the scene back into his head. _Beep_. "Damn it." Chuck sat up, shaking his head. He looked at the _Tron _poster on another wall of his room, rubbing his eyes. _Beep_. He finally got up and trudged to the computer. He had a new email. Expecting spam, he opened the email server. The beeping stopped but the beating started. His heart, not the computer. The email was from his one-time best friend, Bryce Larkin. Utter asshole. He had not heard from Bryce in years. The one good thing in those damn years. Why the utter asshole choose tonight to send an email? Although it was not what Lewis Carroll meant, an email from Bryce basically made it Chuck's _unbirthday._

He paused, the cursor moved to the 'Trash' icon, when he had a second thought. Maybe there was some legitimate reason Bryce had sent the email? Even utter assholes sometimes had reasons.

Chuck moved the cursor back and clicked on the email. When it opened, it was as if Chuck's computer screen...vomited, projectile vomited: colors, images, shapes, video clips, photographs, text - all of it projectiled through Chuck's unsuspicious eyes and splattered around in his unsuspecting brain. His last conscious thought was a question: _is this what it feels like when your head _actually _explodes?_

Chuck was tall, lanky. Handsome - his handsomeness fine, not rugged. He had curly brown hair and amber-brown eyes. His handsome face blanked. Given his height, it was a long plummet to the ground, a great distance for his curly head; it banged hard against the hardwood floor of his room and Chuck, brown eyes closed, was lost in interior blackness.

The blackness lasted a long time. Like the moment when the lights dimmed at the movies but the movie had not yet started. Then he dreamt. He dreamt of _Tron_, of being captive inside a computer. Trapped in cyberspace. Chased by cyborgs. Surrounded by...

...spies? A metallic voice sounded in his head: ~ _Danger! Danger, Chuck Bartowski!~_

The voice rattled on, unintelligible, aluminum cans shaken in a metal drum. Chuck could not understand. Slowly, the voice became more human, less mechanical, more intelligible, less noisy...

~"Chuck, Chuck, son, you need to wake up. Chuck!"~

~"_Dad_?"~

Chuck opened his eyes. No one was there.

~"I'm here, Chuck."~

"No, no, you're not…" Chuck sat up, rubbing the back of his head, the lump.

No one was in his room. The only other occupant, other than his unplayed electric guitar, was sunlight. "No one is here."

~"I'm here - but not here, Chuck. Indexical ambiguity. 'Here' is not the name of a place, son. No more than 'today' is the name of a day."~

"Wow," Chuck said aloud, still gingerly rubbing the lump on his head, "an auditory hallucination. Not good. An auditory hallucination...giving me a lecture. Stanford was a long time ago."

~"Not a hallucination, Chuck. _Think_. Not Stanford. I'm here. _In your head_. And that almost certainly means that...I am dead. Fulcrum must have..."~

Chuck's mind was deluged in...information. It rushed to consciousness, an unstoppable torrent, his mind's eye was being pressure washed, India ink mixed with blood. Explosions, death, guns, knives, wounds, death, blood, fear, death: _Fulcrum._

* * *

Prelude Theme Song: The Unbirthday Song: on YouTube.


	2. Prelude Two: Prepositions

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go? A reconception of S1.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

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PRELUDE TWO

**Prepositions**

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Sarah Walker, blonde, deadly and tall, sat straight in a seat in the otherwise deserted passenger compartment of a CIA jet. After a moment, she leaned back in the seat, checking her seatbelt. The pilot had warned her, via intercom, that he expected a bumpy flight.

As was typically the case, there would be no unnecessary contact between the pilot and Sarah. She knew he knew the drill: air-ferry nameless spooks to far-flung places, remembering none - neither the spooks nor the places. Taking un-people to un-cities. Sarah knew the drill too. Her life _was_ a drill. Preparation. Caution. Situational awareness, awareness of everything but herself and her forgotten sarcophagus heart. Lists - but not grocery lists or, hard to even imagine, Honey-do lists: no, lists of death and death-dealing, lists to make sure she sealed the deal. Termination lists. Kill, kill, kill. No, no honey, only bitters. Sarah subsisted in the off-scouring of real human lives.

_Another long flight with no one to talk to_. Not that she would have talked if there had been someone; she was not a talker. She loved languages, loved language, loved words; it was one of the few delights in her darkly pietistic world, a joy of freedom in the contorted rigorism of her daily devotions to the Company. But she kept her peace and rarely spoke. She had learnt young how much people give away in talking - not just in what they say but in how they say it and to whom they say it and where and when they say it. All talk is an exhibition of character or the lack of it. Speech was remorselessly self-revelatory. "_Speak, so that I may see you." _Sarah did not speak; no one could see her. An invisible beauty. _Beauty?_

She ran her hands through her hair, a tight gesture of self-maintenance and disbelief.

It had been a bizarre few hours, even by a CIA assassin's standards. It began with a phone call from the CIA Director, Langston Graham. Sarah was his bloody right hand, his dedicated enforcer; he had made her perhaps the most feared person in the CIA; she had made him powerful beyond his office. But she had been on extended leave after a...difficult...mission to Budapest. The mission had created distance between herself and Graham.

Not that they had ever been personally close: they had no personal relationship at all, really, although Sarah knew there had been a time when he vaguely had been a father-figure to her. That time was long gone, casketed alongside the woman Sarah terminated as directed in her Red Test, Graham's brutal test of an agent's hard-wiring and loyalty. Graham proved to himself and to Sarah that she was capable of pulling the trigger in cold blood, under orders - a piece of self-knowledge she would have been spared. Sarah discovered that she could not pull a trigger in cold blood and simply slough off the spilt blood like rainwater off a trench coat. Baroque strategies of self-deception were demanded to keep her from crumbling as a result of the bitter, accumulating remorse and the jarring, heavy recoil of her violent life. Of the death in her life...the death _of_ her life. _Prepositions - the little words mattered. The devil was in the linguistic details. _It did not matter that she terminated under orders or that she exterminated monsters. Anyone who thought that knowledge would make the terminations consequence-free was cruelly deluded.

Consequences - _there were consequences_. _Always. Every action comes with reaction. As I change the world, I change myself. Even in doing what is permissible I may do impermissible things to myself. _

Not least of the consequences was the self-alienation in which Sarah lived, her hungry fear _of_...her hungry fear _for_?...human contact. Somewhere deep, beneath her power fully to avow it, she believed that she was no longer worthy of human contact, worth contacting. In killing monsters she had turned monstrous.

Anyway, she and Graham had become professionally distant. Budapest included an act of disloyalty, and even if Graham understood it and even if he, begrudgingly, condoned it, as the act of mercy it was, he did not condone it as the abrogation of orders it also was, its revelation that his assassin was not simply _his. _He had ordered her for so long and she had so immediately obeyed that she had come to seem actually his own right hand (to him and to her), an appendage to be ruled despotically, incapable of independent thought or will. Graham had given her "some time off" after Budapest. Not a reward, no, it was a warning. He knew she was dependent on work, that only her work could keep her from reflecting on her work. She buried herself in work to keep from thinking about death.

She had gotten the phone call from Graham in the middle of the night. He called to tell her to rush to the airport, that a flight to California was being prepared for her. And then he told her the first piece of relevant news.

Agent Bryce Larkin was dead, shot during an attack on a top-secret location. Larkin, Bryce, had been Sarah's partner for a short time, her lover for an even shorter time. He had abandoned her, them, and gone rogue. The latter mattered more to her than the former, sadly. She had already accepted that he was personally disloyal: he had no intention of committing to her in the way she had, for a moment, thought she intended to commit to him. She came to her senses, eventually, and although she liked him, she realized that there was no future with him. _What kind of future was I even imagining? Spy house? Spy kids? _That realization turned out to be strangely prophetic since before anything between them could be clarified, he vanished - apparently turning on the CIA, the US government, on them, on her.

The second piece of relevant news was the existence of the Intersect. Graham had not told her much about it, but it was the Intersect that Bryce had been after, the Intersect that Bryce had apparently captured, taken - and that he had sent to an old college friend just before dying of his wounds.

Bryce dead. Dead. Death. Sarah was not sure exactly how she felt about Bryce's death. Yes, she thought it was sad. But she did not know if she was sad or not. Of course, she often did not know what, if any, emotional reaction she had to what she did or to what happened to her. She had been taught that her emotions were just effluvia, psychologically contained colorations of objectively colorless events: cheap sunglasses tinting and distorting an expensive world. Emotions were childish, child's play. They held no revelatory power. And so she did her best to treat her emotions like nail-clippings: slightly shameful parts of her that could be, should be, trashed. She had bags and bags and bags of emotions inside her, all jammed to full, stretched and torn, but no one had explained to her where they were to be dumped.

The pilot's intercommed voice told her they were next for take-off. She had not noticed that the plane had been rolling.

The tinny, mechanized sound of the pilot's voice made Sarah think of the Intersect. Graham's brief description sounded...well, loopy. Spy-fi. _What the hell did Graham think he was up to? _A merger of data between the CIA and NSA, a program that could discern, decipher patterns? Sarah and other spies had long joked that theirs would be the last job to become automated, they would be the last to be replaced by robots, but maybe their day had come?

Sarah shook her head at herself, that line of thought. Graham was to talk to her via video uplink inflight. _Prepare_. It was time to prepare. Prep. That was what she did. Pre-position herself. Maybe she could get back into Graham's good professional graces; he had, after all, chosen her for this assignment, one of tremendous importance. She picked up the sealed envelope on the seat beside her. It had been there when she boarded.

She broke the seal. Opened it. She found _Chuck Bartowski_.

* * *

A/N: Differences between what I am doing and the show should be coming into view. There will be more to see, of course.

A few things before we begin the story proper.

(1) I have relocated the show to the present. Keep that in mind.

(2) Although I am 'reconceiving' the show, I am 'reconceiving' it against the omnipresent backdrop of the canon. Note, in particular, that I take much that I am doing to explicitate, not wildly to depart from the canon. A crucial example: we know from S3 that Chuck of S1-2 hated himself. I have thematized that idea, and moved it to an explicit position in the opening of the show 'reconceived'.

(3) In previous stories, I have tried to keep a veneer of pulp fiction for my prose. Not so much here. I am going to let myself do what I want with the words, the syntax. Be prepared for that. It will only get worse...um, better...Um, anyway...

(4) I am grading final papers so I have not been responding to each review or PM. I will try to catch up soon.


	3. Chapter 1: Talk, Internal and External

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Some teasing exposition...

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

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**_Book One: Inheritance_**

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CHAPTER ONE

**Talk, Internal and External**

* * *

Chuck cranked his eyes open, and could almost hear the squeak of the crank as it turned. His eyelids rose millimeter by millimeter. Then blinked slow. Slow-ly. Up and down, still squeaky but this time like dry-rotted wipers. Reoriented: he reoriented himself.

_Why does no one re-occident themselves? Famous stars in the wrong places? We three kings of occident are…Neither east nor west is north, lodestone and compass-orienter, North By Northwest...Almost horizontal. Cary Grant. Rushmore..._

He was still in his room. His room _ached_. _God, it hurts. _No - that, _it_, was his head, not his room, although it felt as if it had swollen to encompass the room, and beyond the room, the world, all of space. _My life is a house, you crawl through the window..._

The time. The time was. The time was, he could tell, later in the day: the sunlight at a certain slant meant early afternoon. Dust particles snowflaked dreamily in the slanted shafts of light. He looked down at himself. He was still in his unbirthday suit - the clothes he wore to Ellie's party. For a moment, he could remember nothing but leaving the party, sending Morgan home, intending to hide away in his bedroom, to prepare to face tomorrow. No, today. Today...

_Damn it, the Buy More! _

He was supposed to have been there hours ago. He grabbed his phone. Several texts of warning from Morgan were mixed with several of demand from Big Mike, his manager, each Big Mike text more annoyed than the previous. Big Mike did not have a gift for words, but he was good at punctuating. Multiple exclamations. Some choice emojis.

Chuck started to call Morgan to assess the damage..._the damage_...when he remembered a word: _Fulcrum._

Fulcrum? Damage?

The splay of images from the morning recurred, but without the stinging violence, the astringent mental 'taste': he was... remembering the images now, he realized, recalling them of his own volition instead of..._flashing_ on them, recalling them, not being force-fed them. The images of violence were nauseating, graphic, disturbing, but interspersed with them were images of documents - reports, plans, memoranda, maps, invoices - and beyond the images, in a different 'dimension', was a pattern, a form, a _gestalt_. There was _meaning_ in the data; the pieces _fit_ together. A darkling sum greater than the bilious parts. But Chuck did not know how to articulate the gestalt, how to do the sum, how to freight the meaning into words. It was there, _there_, but only as felt, not yet as thought. Not quite on the tip of his tongue. All he could think was: _Fulcrum_. The pattern was somehow represented by the word - but the word barely communicated.

_Spies need advertisers to rename their evil organizations. Of course, spies and advertisers don't intermingle, I reckon. Bad men and Madmen. Ad men. Don Draper. Roger Thornhill. _

Trying to stall his mental spiral by physical motion, Chuck got off the floor where he had been sitting. He stumbled left, then right, unable to find his balance for a moment, the floor beneath him like moving water, undulating. His headache was intense, ululating. He could not remember ever having a comparable headache. Someone had stuffed his head to bursting with wool, and then wet it. His head was heavy, heavy - anvil on his neck, and there was so much pressure, the early stages of a supernova, core collapse. Swinging his head side to side only intensified the pain, worsened his imbalance.

He glanced at his desk and saw his Buy More pocket protector, his name printed on it. _Chuck Bartowski. _

A new violent influx of images. Photos of him. A file on him, a few pages. Test scores. Stanford transcripts. A redacted final page. He felt like someone was turning his sinuses inside out.

Pain saturating him, he fell again, his head too heavy to belong to his body. He rose to his hands and knees, then sank back onto his feet, sitting with them beneath him and holding his head in his hands. He had never been seasick, but now he was - on dry land, hardwood floor. Undulation. Ululation. Unbirthday.

He was crazy - he had finally lost it. It had been coming all along. Like his dad. Crazy. Finally crazy. Either that, or he had a celestial tumor in his head about to become a neutron star, about to ignite. But then, just as he groaned and was about to cry out, the pain began to ebb, the pressure released. In a moment, he was left only with a dull ache. He tried to stand and managed it this time, his balance returning. Slowly, the things around him stabilized.

After a few minutes standing and breathing slowly, Chuck texted Morgan, asking him to tell Big Mike that he woke up late, sick, and he then grabbed some clean clothes and left the bedroom, walking cautiously, a seaman ashore, a landlubber at sea, down the few hallway steps to the bathroom.

The apartment was silent, still. Ellie and Devon were both at the hospital, at work. Chuck stopped in the hall for a second, looking around. He felt...displaced. Everything around him, pictures, furniture, throw pillows, knickknacks - it all seemed bathed in unfamiliarity. It all struck him as, ordinarily, it did not. It was the background of his life, rarely, if ever, called into the foreground. Most of the time it was one large but variegated object - the apartment - and his attention rarely focused on it item by item, wall by wall, floor and ceiling. But now he found himself craning around, gawking, like it was all so much gazingstock. Like he had never been there before.

_Side effects of my headache. Must be. I _live _here. _

But part of him felt like he did not.

He went into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, a ripple of surprise running through him again, as if he were new to himself. He put the clothes on the counter and started to undress. He had gotten to his boxers when he glanced into the mirror again. He blushed. Or rather, his skin reddened. He felt no emotional undertone, nothing that would explain the physiological change. Like he was wearing someone else's blush. An alien blush.

And then he remembered, unclearly - at precisely the same moment as the voice in his head spoke again, clearly.

~"Um...Chuck, we might need to work out a system."~

"Dad?" Chuck spoke in the empty bathroom.

~"Yes, son, still here. Here, remember?"~

And then he remembered clearly. His dad in his head. He was crazy. This was proof. It was why everything seemed unfamiliar. He was losing his mind.

~"Chuck, C' mon, Chuck, take a breath. I know it seems impossible, but it isn't. The actual is definitive proof of the possible, Chuck, and I am actually here."~

"No, the impossible seemingly actualized is definitive proof of insanity, Dad."

~"You don't actually have to speak aloud, Chuck. I can't read your thoughts, it turns out. And that's interesting...But I can 'hear' the ones you intend for me to hear, the ones you address to me, as it were."~

Chuck put his hands on his head and shook it, trying to make his neck limp enough that he could shake some sense back into himself and his dad's voice out of himself.

~" Chuck, stop. You'll hurt yourself. You looked at something last night, you must have, for this to have happened. I never intended this to happen, Chuck, believe me, my calculations, my models, suggested that…"~

For a moment, Chuck forgot the oddity of the situation; he remembered that he had remembered. "Wait, I did. I did. Bryce Larkin...sent me an email and I opened it…"

~"Larkin? _Son of a bitch_…"

"Is that a general 'son of a bitch' or is that specifically for Bryce, Dad?"

~"For Bryce. Utter asshole. Damn spies. I knew he was up to something, some kind of double- or triple- or quadruple-cross. Although, is a quadruple-cross really just a form of a double-cross...a double-double-cross?...you know, Chuck, like if you turn around twice you are facing the way you started - four times too, only you spin more…"~

~"Dad, focus, you are spiraling…"~ Chuck spoke to his dad in his head without realizing he was doing it.

~"Oh, sorry, Chuck...Bryce must have gotten to the program, found it, in the mess after Fulcrum…"

~"Mess, Dad?"~

~"See, Chuck, you can just _think_ to me; you don't have to _speak_ to me. Yes, the mess. This is a long story, Chuck.

~"Short version. I was working on a program, the Intersect, that would allow normal teaching to be...bypassed. Knowledge could be implanted directly into a mind without being learnt. I can tell you more about that later, but that we are having this conversation should give you a sense of what I was chasing around. I started the project funded by the CIA - but over the years, I grew to...mistrust them...for...lots of reasons. I had to take my work into hiding, and so I left you and Ellie and went to ground, trying to advance my research while keeping it from the CIA, the government…keeping you two safe..."

~"Shit, Dad…"~

~"I know, Chuck, I...shouldn't have left you two...Ellie...I know that...I...I...Well, I spent a long time hiding, Chuck, working...on various...projects...not just the Intersect. I used a codename, _Orion_. But, some years ago, Fulcrum, I'm guessing you now know about Fulcrum, given the fainting...Fulcrum found me. I couldn't seem to shake them. They almost had me a couple of times, but I got away. The first time, though, I did not have time to gather all my...materials...and they got an old version of the Intersect. It's problematic...Neural deterioration, I suspect it has some kind of adverse effects on the C-fibers in the brain...and other things...I've fixed it...well, I have...um..._ameliorated_...it."~

Chuck shook his head. ~"Look, Dad, my head hurts, and I have obviously lost my mind and am having a prolonged and bizarrely coherent auditory hallucination...can you please stay on topic? And lay off words like 'ameliorate'?"~

~"Chuck, _think_. I can't both be your dad and be an auditory hallucination…"

~"Really, _you_ think so? You were always more an auditory hallucination than a dad, Dad."~

~Silence.~ Internal. External. From outside the apartment, Chuck realized he could hear the fountain gurgle; it sounded like distant sobbing.

~"I know I...deserve that. Look, we don't have much time to talk."~

~"Why not, you're in my head, Dad, a permanent conversation partner, like we share a cell. Solitary, but, you know, not. Me and my Imaginary Dad. Why not?"~

~"You see, Chuck, I am not here permanently. And I am not here all the time…"~

~"What does that mean? You were never here permanently, you were gone all the time"~ Chuck's words like chokeweed.

His father did not rise to the challenge. ~"The Intersect you downloaded, the thing Bryce emailed to you, is descendant of the Intersect I have had for years. That's not true of the one that Fulcrum has. It is one that shares no continuous history with the one I have, at least not one of the right sort. Hard to explain. Here's the point: There's a kind of residue of me in the Intersect. It turns out when I...hooked mine...into the new, improved one, I went with it. Sort of."~

"Jesus, Dad!" Chuck yelled in the empty bathroom. "Make sense!"

~"I had the Intersect for a long time, Chuck. I used it too much. It made...It changed me...but over time I got mixed with it."~

~"Mixed?"~

~"Not exactly a technical term, but there isn't one. I mean, I could create a neologism, but that would give us a name for a problem not any insight into it. There is that line of Browning's: '...grows into and is again grown into by…', that's sort of right..."~

"Dad!"

~"Sorry. Sorry. Imagine you go to an estate sale, and you find an old, beautiful leather briefcase that the deceased man carried for years. High-quality. It has been well-used and well-cared-for. It has _patina. _Not just of age, but of use, and of particular use by the man who carried it. He, over time, mixed himself, his sweat and his habits, into the leather. Now, the way it opens is the way it opened for him, favoring the right hand or the left, fingermarks in a particular place; the way it hangs from the shoulder is the way he hung from his, the scratches and smudges and dents accumulated from his use, his life, his habits. He is still there, there in the briefcase. The patina is the patina of his use. His habits ingrained in leather."~

"Okay..?"

~"Well, imagine that my Intersect was that briefcase. But a briefcase much more closely used, much more continually, much more thoroughly mixed with me. It has a patina of use, of my use. See, I am still there, there in my Intersect, which is there, ancestrally, in the Intersect you now have."~

~"Okay...Let's say I about half understand that. So why aren't you permanent?"

~"Imagine you buy the briefcase and start to use it daily. Over time, it begins to mix with you as it had mixed with its previous owner. Slowly, much that he had made it changes. It opens differently, it hangs differently...As you use the Intersect, you will eventually...get rid of the residue of me, bury it under a new patina."~

~"Okay...but why aren't you here all the time?"~

~"Imagine you leave the briefcase at home. The patina stays with it.."

"Dad, enough with the damn imaginary briefcase. Skip the analogy. Just tell me." Chuck could hear the frustration in his voice, echoing in the bathroom.

~"Okay. I am only...here...for a little while after each Intersect episode…"

"_Flash_?"

~"Hey, that's good, Chuck. Better than 'episode', anyway. That sounds straight-up crazy. So, yes, I am only around in the afterglow of a flash…"

~Silence.~

"Dear God, Dad, never say it like that again. As if having you in my head weren't disturbing enough…"

~"Oh, right, sorry. 'Flash' got me to 'afterglow'. Oh, sorry, did it again. So...I will eventually fade. In fact, Chuck, I am fading...now….I will tell you more, later..." His dad's voice quieted, began to sound metallic, broke up. Vanished.

"No, Dad, wait, I don't understand...I...Dad? Dad, don't go." Chuck felt little again, abandoned. He stood lonely in the bathroom, in his boxers, staring at himself in the mirror for a long time, lost, at home.

He tried to speak to his dad but got no answer. His headache had crawled from his head down into his neck and shoulders. He doffed his boxers and donned the shower. The hot water beat on his aching neck and shoulders, relieving them. He stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders. His confused heartache was too deep for the hot water to reach. He did not know what was happening to him, so he soaped a washcloth and began to clean up. A little sane routine onto which to cling, a chunk of debris in the sudden shipwreck of his previously dry-docked life.

* * *

A/N: Okay…

Next chapter: Sarah has an inflight talk with Graham.


	4. Chapter 2: Talk, High and Low

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

More teasing exposition...The backstory here is complex, twisty, and will only get doled out a little at a time. And be careful: don't believe everything everyone says. Ignorance and ulterior motives encircle events.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TW0

**Talk, High and Low**

* * *

Sarah sighed and closed the file, although she kept the photos out, holding onto them.

There was not much information in the file. She had read everything several times. A smart guy, this Chuck (_Charles Irving_) Bartowski. Stanford, for a while, until he was kicked out for cheating. Since then he had been..._stuck_...it seemed. A sister, Ellie, a doctor, her boyfriend, Devon Woodcomb, a doctor too, one close friend, Morgan Grimes, _not_ a doctor. No girlfriend. Sarah had double-checked that. No girlfriend - since college. There, he had dated a woman named Jill Roberts. Beyond her name, though, the file contained nothing about her.

There were photos, the ones she had kept out, mostly surveillance photos (_odd_) of Chuck on campus at Stanford. The photos had struck Sarah: she had examined them for a long time. In each, Chuck - Chuck Bartowski - was talking with friends. His face, finely handsome, was animated, his hands up, participating in his talking smile. The faces of the friends around him, the ones Sarah could see in the photo, were faces charmed, entranced by whatever it was that Chuck - Chuck Bartowski - was talking about.

For a long moment, for how long she did not know, could not say, Sarah had looked at her favorite - the clearest image of Chuck (Chuck Bartowski) - among the photos, and without doing it deliberately, she imagined herself one of the friends in the photo, charmed in person by Chuck's talking smile. Sarah had only _sort of_ been to college, Harvard, sent there by Graham for intensive language training, and never there on the books, so to speak, as a regular student. She had witnessed scenes like the one in the photograph while she was in Cambridge, but she had never been part of one. Of course, if she had seen Chuck - _yes, she was just going to think of him as Chuck for now, she could right herself later, if necessary_ \- she might have deflected from her courses and defected from Graham's orders and become a genuine part of that scene, a recipient, grateful, of that talking smile.

It was a sad - perhaps the saddest - commentary on her condemned life that it contained so few smiles, real smiles, her own or others. Her happiest memories were of smiles, her mother's, her dad's. The smile shading her life was Graham's smile, a skeleton-at-the-feast sort of unsmile that chilled her when she let herself brood over it. So, she normally did not; she did not even look at it. She had known Graham for long enough, his rhythms of speech and expression were familiar enough, that she could normally turn or glance away and not face that devouring smile.

That she was responsible for that smile, responsive to it, turned her stomach. She fed it. She was a monster's monster.

Trembling a little, chilled just thinking about Graham's smile, she focused again on the photo. The chill that passed over her went away and she again imagined herself in the scene, a different woman with a different past and different prospects, maybe even a woman hopeful that Chuck would talk to her in particular, ask her to coffee, single her out as worthy of that smile, that so-alive smile...

_Shit. Shit. Stop it, Sarah. _She huffed at herself disgustedly.

One thing she had learnt long before the CIA, long before Graham, a lesson drilled into her by her father, was that imagination was a Bad Thing. She had been taught to stay focused, face facts, make plans, prepare. Her imagination was only to be used as necessary in those tasks, in a disciplined way. Otherwise, the wretched thing was to be ignored, was to fust in her unused. Imagining led to imagining how it was with others, (then, with her father) dupes or marks, (now, with Graham) assets or targets; it led to acknowledging both their inner life and her own in one simple act of imagining what it might be like to be them. Her imagination was never to be allowed free play, never allowed to wander or wonder.

Stomached in a CIA jet, an assassin, and imagining herself at college with Chuck, that was a bad idea, useless. Worse than useless. Dangerous. She was on a plane to Burbank. _She_ was - the Ice Queen, the Enforcer - was on a plane to Burbank. And whatever else was true, if Graham had chosen her for this assignment, it was because he foresaw a real possibility that it would end in blood, Ch- Bartowski's blood.

She should not be imagining these things, anything. She should be as dark inside as her world was around her.

Still, ever since Budapest, her imagination had become headstrong, hard to manage, demanding; it had taken on a life of its own. Little things prompted big imaginings. Haunted by nightmares as she had been for years, she had never known until recently what it was to muse in daydreams. _It is a bad habit_, she could hear her father and Graham speaking in unison, _and it needs to be stopped dead_.

Her imagination had been discouraged in her childhood, condemned in her adulthood. And now she was not only losing time during the day, staring dreamily into space, but her nightmares had recently intensified, showing in horrific, detailed _VistaVision_ the darkest moments of her time past. She needed to stop it. Brake her imagination. But stopping was proving harder than she had...imagined. She kept pumping the brakes but her imagination only seemed to speed up.

Her imagination had a life of its own. She, the assassin, could not seem to terminate it.

The pilot's voice interrupted her thoughts again. _Video uplink in sixty seconds._ Time to face Graham, to face the funeral music. She put the photos back in the file and the file on the seat beside her. She allowed her face to become expressionless. She was ready: Graham's to command.

The video screen against the front wall of the passenger compartment showed static for a second, then cleared. Graham. His long, dark face frowned.

"Agent Walker. Good. The pilot reports that you are making good time. You should be in Burbank in time to establish yourself and still approach...this _Bartowski_...before the end of the day."

Graham had almost stumbled on 'Bartowski' - admittedly, an unusual name - but the stumble did not seem to be a difficulty of pronunciation; it was something else. Sarah filed that away.

"As you know, he works at a big box store, a Buy More. He is scheduled to work an early shift there tomorrow - excuse me, today - and that would likely be the best place for you to approach him. We need to know whether he has the Intersect or not, and if he does, where, on what computer or device, he has it stored. I do not know if he is involved in this or if he is an innocent caught up in events, but that is the other thing we need to know…"

"Do we have any idea why Agent Larkin would have sent it to Ch- Bartowski?" Sarah worked to flatten her tone into neutrality.

Graham gave her a short, hard look, assessing her motives. "No, we do not know what his motives were. Did Agent Larkin ever mention Bartowski to you, Agent Walker?"

Sarah had already thought about this but she took a moment anyway, gathering her thoughts, choosing her words. "No, at least never by name. If you'll pardon my bluntness, sir, you know...knew Agent Larkin. He talked about himself...a lot...but rarely in a way that included personal details, history. But once, I recall, when we were first a team, after a mission, he had gotten...tipsy...and he mentioned an old friend, a college friend. He only mentioned that they created and played video games together, but it stuck in my mind because it was the only time I could ever remember Bryce...Agent Larkin...sounding envious of someone else."

Graham raised one eyebrow perhaps a millimeter at 'envious' but otherwise did not react to Sarah's report, lengthy for her.

He sat quietly for a moment, then he spoke. "As far as I can tell, from reviewing Agent Larkin's file, he never visited Burbank, and was only in California a few times, always on missions. We have no reason to believe that Agent Larkin ever re-established contact with Bartowski."

"Re-established?" Sarah asked. "Was there a break between them?"

"Yes, at Stanford, or so it seems. Agent Larkin accused Bartowski of a cheating scheme, resulting in Bartowski's expulsion."

Sarah allowed herself no facial reaction. "I saw that Bartowski's transcript ended with him a term short of graduation, saw the notation about his being expelled. Do you know anything more about what happened? Did...Bartowski cheat?" _Why do I hope the answer is no? It would be...easier...if it was yes._

"To be honest, I don't know anything more about it. I only found this out when an analyst was scouring Stanford records a few hours ago. I may know more soon, but right now, I know only about the participants in the Academic Dishonesty trial and the result of it; I have no details about the testimony."

Sarah nodded but she was sure Graham was lying to her, at least in part. _Hasn't he always been, Sarah? _ "Sir, why was there a file on Bartowski at all? Why are there surveillance photos in it from Stanford? Has Bartowski been of interest to the CIA before?"

Graham looked at her and held her gaze - held it for a beat too long. "The Bartowski family has been of interest to the CIA - but not this particular Bartowski."

Sarah normally accepted whatever he gave her and asked no questions other than procedural ones, but she could not keep herself from asking another now. _Why am I pushing?_ "Why has the family been of interest?"

"That is NTK, Agent Walker, and you do not. Not yet." Graham's eyes narrowed in warning. His tone marked his change of subject. "I hope you appreciate the significance of my choosing you for this assignment, Agent. You may use whatever means are _necessary_," Graham paused and waited for a response, but Sarah did not react, "to find the Intersect and to find out why Agent Larkin sent the Intersect to Bartowski."

Sarah nodded but could not keep herself from adding a comment: "You know how I work, sir, I will use whatever means I deem permissible."

She saw Graham's jaw tighten and his eyes narrowed further, an unstated accusation in his eyes. _Disloyal. _But still, Sarah kept her expression unreadable. Graham spoke again, his teeth together. "But you understand the mission?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, sir, I believe I do; but, still, let me ask, for the record. What do I do if Bartowski runs?"

"Kill him." Graham did not hesitate.

Sarah felt her gut knot. Her earlier chill returned. "Is there anything more you can tell me about the Intersect, sir?"

Graham sat for a moment as if pondering his response. "I can only tell you that there are different versions of it, different branches of a family tree, as it were. The one that Agent Larkin sent to Bartowski is - well, call it the true family heir. Fulcrum has a version, but faulty, and they were trying to get the better, the best, version, from the Intersect's creator.

"The version we have is faulty too. We do not know if Larkin got to the best version as a Fulcrum agent or as a CIA agent, or as an independent player. His sending it to Bartowski makes me wonder if he really was a double-agent after all, really rogue, or if he was instead in some deep, unauthorized cover...or just fortune-hunting for himself. But that is part of the reason we want you to find Bartowski quickly. There is no evidence to suggest he is part of Fulcrum or some plot of Agent Larkin's, but it is possible. Anything's possible."

Sarah nodded once. "You mentioned the creator of the Intersect. Do we know who that is?"

Graham's face became unreadable, mirroring Sarah's. "We know a code name. _You_ know the code name. _Orion_."

Sarah jerked a bit in her chair, unable this time to manage herself. "Orion? The same man I had a termination order for? The ghost I chased around for almost three months before you called me back in, sent me on 'a more pressing' assignment?"

"Yes, him. He is the creator of the Intersect. There is much here that you do not know, Agent. I will share it if and when I deem it necessary." The last word, Graham's inflection of it, thickened the air. "But for now, I need you to find Bartowski and find the Intersect. Focus on that, not the bigger picture. That is my problem.

"I do not want to send in a team or call undue attention to this for a variety of reasons: one, because the NSA has skin in the game, and I do not want to play second fiddle to damn Diane Beckman, but two, and more important, because Fulcrum has infiltrated both the CIA and the NSA. I want to send someone I can trust. Of all people, _I can trust you_, can't I, Agent Walker?"

Sarah spoke an immediate response. "Yes, sir. But I don't understand; I'm confused. Why is the best version so important to national security? Given what you told me on the phone, isn't the version with the CIA and NSA data banks on it the faulty version you have? But now I see that isn't the version Bartowski has. So, other than wanting the better tech, why is the best version, his version, so important?"

Sarah could just hear Graham's drumming fingers although they were out of frame. The drumming sounded like Taps. He took a minute. "Because Orion found a way into our two databases, and he added them, _in total_, to his best version - at least, we are practically certain that he did. We have serious security breaches on both systems and the sophistication of them is a virtual fingerprint, Orion's." Graham sighed, sounding frustrated. "He has been 'siphoning' off data in small amounts, now and then, for a long time, years. That is one reason for the Orion termination order you were given. But this last data heist was recent and massive. We are not sure what he was planning, but we do think the data was destined for the best version of the Intersect.

"Assuming that is so, the version Bartowski was sent is a national security nightmare, Agent. It _cannot_ get to Fulcrum's or into anyone's hands but mine. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Director."

"Good. And if Bartowski runs?"

"I kill him." _Can I kill that smile? Can I? Can I kill Bart- Chuck's smile?_

"Good." Graham smiled just as Sarah glanced away. When she glanced back, the screen was black.

* * *

A/N: Future chapters will be longer, 5-7K or so. Expect them on Thursdays or Fridays, once a week. (I am leaving soon to teach in Barcelona and will be writing from there for a while.)

The two Preludes and the two initial chapters are two pairs of formal 'twins' (as their titles suggest), and I wanted to keep them short. The principals meet in the next chapter, and additional characters make first appearances.

Keep in mind that virtually everything matters here. Don't take me just to be playing with words, although I am doing that - but not _just_ doing that. The wordplay has a point. In all my stories, but especially this one, the form is part of the content (if I may put it that way). Please review or send me a PM. Thanks in advance!


	5. Chapter 3: Greet Me Deadly?

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

So much for tone-setting and mood-creating - things now start moving.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

**Greet Me Deadly?**

* * *

Sarah slipped into the cool Buy More lights out of the warm California dark.

She stood still, blinking, her eyes adjusting to the brightness. She needed a minute.

It had been a disorienting, frustrating day - _Sisyphus and his uphill-downhill rock _\- that kind of day. It would have been more than bad enough, just given the mission's scrambling of her emotions, her normal mental routine, her enforced numbness. All because of Bartowski. Because of Chuck. But there had been more. Her jet circled the airport interminably, unable to land because of a mixup in flight schedules. When the jet did land, it was at a distant runway and it taxied forever before Sarah could finally deplane. After she disembarked, no car was waiting for her. It took another half an hour for it to arrive - some _snafu_ in the transmission of orders from Langley. She signed for it and its contents. Tired, laboring under mounting anxiety, Sarah put her small suitcase in the trunk. In the car, in the passenger seat, was a large, aluminum-sided briefcase. Inside it, she found a tranq gun and twilight darts (not a weapon she carried with her, like her S&W (in her purse) or her knives (strapped to her leg)). She also found credit cards under three different names, three thousand dollars in cash, a very small video camera/audio recorder, and a CIA-prepped, encrypted laptop, presumably for her to use once she had the Intersect. There were a pair of burner phones still encased in plastic as well.

She grabbed the cash and cards and put them in her large purse, along with the file on Chuck. On Bartowski. On Chuck.

The target.

The car was a brand-new white Toyota Camry, a popular car in a popular color and so nearly invisible on any US street. Her Porsche was in storage in DC. She missed it but was glad she was not using it. If this ended with her having to terminate...Chuck...Bartowski...the target...then she'd rather not have her car serve as a reminder of what she had done.

She started the car and headed out of the web of streets around the airport, using the GPS on her phone. The CIA had secured her a room - at a place called _Maison23_ \- that she could use as a base of operations. Although Graham was clearly hoping her mission would be brief, he knew it might take longer. Sarah tried to keep her mind focused, in the present. It wanted to run forward in dread, to what the day might bring, or backward in remembrance, to Budapest and what it had meant. Not wanting to go either direction, she focused only on the street ahead of her and tried to let her mind go blank.

For a moment, she succeeded, but then she attended for the first time to the car's new-car smell. New. She glanced at the odometer. Barely any mileage - probably most of it the mileage to the airport. New. No mileage. Sarah envied the car, if that made any sense. She was not new. She not only had lots of miles on her (far more than her comparative youth suggested), the miles were hard (despite her beauty's contrary testimony). She felt haggard and exhausted. Or, she felt that way until Budapest, and until the "time off" after it.

The truth was that she was only twenty-seven. She had time to find another life, still, time for a re-birth, but to do it she had to believe that there was something in her worth the effort - she had begun to suspect that in Budapest and after, although it was at this point merely a suspicion. Not everything about Budapest and its fallout made Sarah suspect there was something in her worth the effort, true. She had been convicted for so long she was unworthy of real human contact, of real human life - and she supposed she still believed that, _push come to shove_. _As it so often does in my life. _ Her suspicion, mere and watery, had not been enough to supplant her conviction, old and hard-rooted. There was, though, a tension inside her, a seesawing on her self-verdict. Had her life, the prosecution, shouldered the burden of proof, had it shown her to be irredeemable - beyond a reasonable doubt? She had doubts now, maybe even reasonable ones. Suspicions. Perhaps her conviction could be overturned. Undone.

But if she did this..._thing_...she might have to do, if Chuck ran...Wouldn't she terminate her suspicion about herself along with Chuck? Wouldn't that be proof beyond a reasonable doubt that she was irredeemable? She could not credit the idea that Chuck was really involved with Fulcrum or with Bryce. Even Graham, despite his "Anything's possible", was obviously having trouble believing Chuck was guilty of anything that justified Sarah's appearance in his life. Maybe he had cheated at college, maybe, but could that make him number among the monsters she had exterminated?

No. That was the complete answer. _No_. She closed her eyes for just a second and exhaled. When she inhaled, the noticed the scent of the car anew.

_New._ No, she was not new. Not yet. But she was not the old Sarah. She had no idea how to assess the changes, but there had been changes. Perhaps they would be short-lived. Perhaps they were skin-deep. They were not an illusion.

She arrived at _Maison23_ and parked in a short-term spot near lobby doors. She grabbed the briefcase from the seat beside her and her suitcase from the trunk and walked inside. The elderly woman at the counter gave Sarah a quick glance, half admiration, half envy, and then forced a smiled. The sort of smile Sarah knew well. Fake was her _métier._

"May I help you?"

"Hi," Sarah said, calling up a smile that she knew was ingratiating, not radiant (no need to rankle the envy), "I'm Sarah Walker. My company was to have arranged for a room for me. I believe I am expected?"

The woman smiled back involuntarily, then turned to her computer. She punched the keys for a moment. "Let's see, Walker, Walker...Sarah Walker. Yes, Ms. Walker, you are here. I see that DynaTech has reserved the room indefinitely, and it is...to be billed to them. Incidentals included. How many keys will you need?"

"One." _When I have ever needed two? For a little while with Bryce, I guess, until I realized that we were not really together. Never really together. _"Just one. I am unsure how long I will stay. What are the checkout procedures? It's possible I may have to leave suddenly, maybe even in the middle of the night…"

The woman, her name badge read 'Gladys', gave her a puzzled look. Sarah went on. "My work requires me to move quickly from place to place. Troubleshooter. Keeps me moving."

Gladys handed Sarah her key and told her the room number. "Hard to sort yourself if you're constantly on the move."

Sarah had not expected Gladys to volunteer wisdom with the key, and the words took her by surprise. "I guess you are right. Maybe someday…"

Sarah picked up her things and headed to her room. Once there, she put her briefcase on the middle of the bed and parked her suitcase at its foot. She looked around. Other than the unexpected, overpowering greenness, the room was like most of the rooms in which she had spent her life. A place to sleep and put things, but not a home, not _hers _in any but a paperwork sense of the term. A decorated storage bin for a human being.

She was about to go into the bathroom and freshen up when her phone rang. She answered. It was one of Graham's analysts. "Agent Walker, secure."

"Agent Walker, this is Brown. We have worked together before. I am the lead analyst for your mission. A couple of things: one, Bartowski did not show up for his Buy More shift today. I have hacked the store computer; he has not clocked in. I looked at the manager's phone log and he sent numerous, rather excited texts to Bartowski, asking where he is. Bartowski just sent in a response. He is unwell, at home. That's worrisome. You may want to scrap the plan of meeting him at the Buy More and go to his apartment. He lives, it turns out, with his sister and her boyfriend, at…" Brown gave her the address and Sarah committed it to memory automatically. "Two, we have located electronic versions of his Dishonesty trial. University records - chaos. Larkin claimed to have found exam keys under Bartowski's bed in their frat house. Bartowski vigorously denied it. The vote for expulsion was close, 3-2.

"Evidently, the dissenting voters cited Bartowski's spotless record and glowing character references from various faculty who had taught him. Bartowski's star was on the rise until the cheating scandal. Rising faster than Larkin's, if that means anything. Apparently, it was testimony by the professor teaching the class for which the exam keys were made who tilted the vote against Bartowski. His claims about Bartowski are damning, but I will admit, just looking at the documents, his claims do not line up with what other faculty said about Bartowski or with his general conduct. He had never been so much as suspected of any academic impropriety in high school or in his previous three and a half years at Stanford. No a hint of scandal or trouble.

"The case seems..._fishy_, if you'll allow me to use a technical spy term. I haven't been able to give this information to Director Graham yet, but I was under his orders to give you anything I thought you needed to know. By the way, there is a third thing, Larkin was already on the CIA payroll when this occurred, but there is no report by him about the incident, so it seems he was not acting in his official capacity as an agent when he brought the charge against Bartowski."

Sarah took a moment and let all this settle in her mind.

_He's no cheater, Brown. You are right, I am willing to bet on it. My spy senses all tell me this was gerrymandered. What the hell were you doing, Bryce?_

"Thanks, Brown. I appreciate this. Let me know if you find anything else."

"Surely, Agent. And you let me know if there is some way I can help you further."

Sarah ended the call. Brown. She had met him in person only once, and briefly, but she knew Graham often assigned him as support to crucial missions. Brown had good tactical and strategic instincts and probably would have been made a field agent, if not for a leg injury that had left him lame. He was a short man with a tall cane, balding, quick to smile. She was impressed by him.

Good news, bad news. Sarah was convinced Chuck was not a cheater. She was also convinced he had gotten caught up in all this by accident or by mistake. That was the good news. Bryce had torpedoed Chuck once - maybe he had done it _again._ Why had he sent the Intersect to Chuck? It made no sense. Sarah needed to know more about what had happened to Bryce, to the facility, but Graham seemed to want her not to know any particulars about that. _Why?_

Sarah needed to talk to Chuck, to see him herself and get a better sense of him. But approaching him at home was much trickier than doing so at the Buy More. At the Buy More, their meeting could seem happenstance. It would be much harder to make it seem that way if she knocked on his apartment door and asked for him.

The problem was that his absence was, as Brown noted, worrisome. That was the bad news. To not show up after the email from Bryce...that looked...problematic. It was possible that he had simply had too much to drink the night before. It had been his birthday, after all, as Sarah noted from his birthdate in the file. She put her phone on the bed and went into the bathroom. She washed her face. She stood for a moment over the sink, letting the water drip from her chin, trying to marshal herself, get a grip. The dripping of the water seemed to help her orient herself.

She would drive to Chuck's place and see if she could find a way to bluff him out of the apartment and into conversation with her. It was the kind of thing she could always pull off. Piece of cake, even if not as easy as the Buy More meeting might have been. But a part of her disliked the idea of it. A part of her really wished she could just have run into him somewhere, chatted with him, gotten to know him. That was not to be: she would meet him now with Graham's orders in place, guaranteeing that their meeting would be false through and through.

The fact that her life itself was classified meant that genuine meetings with other people were impossible for her. She was lying before she finished her greeting.

She dried her face and left the apartment. As she passed the downstairs desk, Gladys stopped her and gave her the number of her assigned tenant parking spot. Sarah took the piece of paper. Gladys shot her a tight smile. "Already at work, I see."

Sarah nodded. Frowned. "I'm afraid I am."

* * *

Chuck had showered and dressed. He kept expecting another...flash, …his dad's voice in his head, ...something...but there was nothing, only silence internal and external.

He had put on his Buy More uniform and he sent Big Mike a text, telling him he was going to come in and work the late shift. He knew that Big Mike was planning on Chuck spending the day in The Cage (the fenced in area in the storage room) doing repairs. Chuck could do them as well now as earlier, even if some customers might be annoyed by the delay. But the delay would be less than if he did not go in until tomorrow.

He looked in the fridge, grabbed a yogurt and a spoon. He left Ellie a note, explaining that his shift had changed at the Buy More and that he would be home later that night, maybe quite late, depending on the repairs. Ellie would likely be home soon, Devon a little while after that. Chuck locked the door and then, pocketing his keys, he opened the yogurt and pulled off the plastic film on top of it. He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with it. Finally, he folded it carefully, the yogurty side on the inside, and put it between two of his fingers holding the yogurt. He dipped the spoon in and took a bite, then headed for the parking lot and the Nerd Herder he had used on yesterday's home install. There was a bag on the floor of the Herder, fast food remains from in a grease-stained bag from yesterday. He would put the yogurt stuff in it and trash it at work.

_Trash at the Buy More. My life._

He got in the car and drove away, the spoon standing in the yogurt in one hand, his other hand on the wheel. He could eat at stops. He looked around him carefully, even...gently...as he drove, afraid to focus long on anything in particular, to bear down on anything with his gaze. He had to see but he feared a flash.

Everything felt and looked...normal. Normal. Maybe it had all been some sort of weird dream or nightmare, a subconscious sewage squid stirred up by the birthday party and running feet of the multiple women who had found him unappealing. Maybe. Like the creature in the garbage compactor on the Death Star, a Diagnoa. Maybe.

_Really, Chuck, a Diagnoa? Pop self-psychology by means of Star Wars mythology? And women do not flock to you? A mystery, bud, a profound mystery..._

Ellie had been suggesting for months that maybe he should see someone, a psychologist friend of hers, "just to talk". To help him get re-focused, develop a plan. Maybe. Maybe he should. Even if all that had seemed to happen in the last day had not really happened, it surely had _seemed _to happen. And that was not good. Not good at all.

* * *

Sarah pulled into the apartment complex parking lot later than she had expected.

She had gotten stuck in a traffic jam and had spent almost two hours trapped in the car, stopped. Most of the afternoon had slipped by while she sat there. She had eventually turned on the radio and listened to first the traffic report (a helicopter above them explaining on pointless repeat that the wreck ahead of her had involved multiple cars and was taking a long time to clear up) and second to a contemporary rock station. She realized she had virtually no familiarity with any of the songs. She could not just sing along. Another bit of normalcy denied to her.

Sarah got out of her car. She walked into the courtyard of the complex and stopped for a second, looking at the fountain there. It was...nice. She sat down on its edge and dipped her hand into the clear water. She let it run out of her hand back into the fountain, then she did it again. The water was cool but not cold. She wondered what it would be like to live there, to be able to go outside and sit by the fountain. She wondered if Chuck ever did that, what he thought about. She gazed around, taken by the small, neat courtyard, the apartments, the whole setting. Not fancy or expensive. Homey.

"Hey, I know that water seems clean, but things aren't always what they seem. I have no idea if they ever change the filter."

Sarah dumped the remaining water from her hand and jumped up. She was facing an attractive brunette, smiling a friendly smile. She had green eyes with a slightly elven tilt to them and they were full mostly of curiosity but also of merriment.

"Oh, I guess you are right. I was just...daydreaming." The word came out as if it belonged to a foreign vocabulary.

The woman's smile grew in intensity and then Sarah recognized it as a version of Chuck's. His sister, Ellie.

"I wish I had more time for that, for daydreaming, um…" Ellie left the sentence hanging, waiting for Sarah's name.

"Sarah. My name is Sarah. I just...moved to town and I'm hunting for an apartment. I drove by and liked the look of this place, found the fountain. Are there any units available, do you know?"

Ellie shifted the bag on her shoulder and looked around. "To be honest, I'm not sure. My brother, Chuck, keeps up more with comings and goings around here. I'm a doctor," Ellie gestured at the purple scrubs she was wearing, "and I work a lot of long hours. Chuck has more time. Not that he doesn't work," Ellie added, sudden concern on her face, "he does. But he works fewer hours and he sometimes does make the rounds. I mean he visits. He's a social butterfly. No, that came out wrong. I don't mean that he's flighty...or anything. He's just friendly. Not needy or creepy. That is, he's good at being a friend, better than me, actually; I don't have many friends. Not that I am unfriendly…"

Sarah had to stop the flow of words; Ellie was fountaining. "No, no, you're certainly not."

Both women stopped talking then. And then both began to laugh. "Sorry," Ellie said, stepping toward Sarah, "family trait. We tend to spiral a bit. Inheritance from Dad."

"That's okay," Sarah offered in response, "I tend in the other direction. Too little, not too much."

"I'm Ellie Bartowski," Ellie said, offering her hand in response to Sarah's offered words. "I guess our meeting is a little like Walt Whitman meeting Emily Dickinson."

At Sarah's puzzled look, Ellie continued. "Maximalist meets minimalist."

"Oh," Sarah said and laughed again. "I don't read much poetry."

Ellie leaned toward Sarah and whispered. "Me, either, really, but now and then I spy Chuck with a volume hidden in a graphic novel."

"Really?" Sarah asked, intrigued, and returning the lean.

"I'm not supposed to know. It would somehow ruin his 'nerd cred'" - she gestured bafflement with her hands, smiling as she did - "although I would have thought it would help it." Ellie in that moment reminded Sarah of the photo of Chuck.

"Is he here - Chuck? Maybe he could tell me if there is a unit available, or one that might soon come available?"

"Well, he's the man to ask. He ought to be home from his shift now. Let me go in and see, Sarah. I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you." Sarah thought she heard Ellie say "Absolutely sure" _sotto voce. _

Ellie dug keys from her bag and opened the door. "Chuck!" She sang his name and did not shout. "Chuck! Are you here?" After a moment, she turned to Sarah. "Let me go check."

She went into the apartment, leaving the door standing open behind her. After a moment or two, she came back, a note in her hand, waving it. "He changed shifts. He must've just left a little while ago. We missed him."

"That's too bad," Sarah said, meaning it.

"Yes, it is." Ellie had an odd expression on her face. It took Sarah a second to recognize it. _Disappointment_. Ellie had wanted Sarah to meet Chuck. "I really hope there is a unit here, Sarah. It'd be great to have you as a neighbor," Ellie said, obviously hopeful. "Would you like to leave a number or something? I could have Chuck call." Ellie tried to hide her investment in Sarah's answer.

Sarah was torn. She liked the idea of continuing this conversation, of getting to know Ellie - not for the mission, just for the sake of...getting to know her. Of getting to be known. Sarah liked her immediately. Ellie seemed to like Sarah. _This is a mission, Sarah. -Doesn't feel like a mission. -Still: it is a mission. _"Tell you what. If you think it would be okay for me to just show up, could I stop by his work? I would really like to have a place here, and I need one soon."

Ellie seemed to stifle a yawp of pleasure; her only sound in response was a squelched squeak. "Sure, you can stop by. He works at...ahhh...the Buy More…" When Sarah did not recoil from the name, Ellie smiled at her again.

Back in her car, Sarah got a text from Brown.

**CB clocked in at Buy More 40 mins ago. Store camera confirmation. Didn't expect that. Must be feeling better.**

* * *

Major John Casey zipped his olive drab duffle bag. The NSA Director, General Diane Beckman, had briefed him, given him his assignment. Some Gameboy named Bartowski, a Nerd Herder at a Buy More. Casey had the green light. He was to kill Bartowski. He checked his watch. He had enough time to stop for pancakes on the way to the airport. For some reason, he was craving pancakes, blueberry pancakes. Green lights and blueberries.

* * *

Sarah's eyes had gotten used to the brightness of the Buy More.

Given her life, that all she did was work and that the CIA provided most of what she needed, Sarah did not spend much time shopping. But she had been in such stores before, a couple of times as part of a mission. A massive concrete box housing cardboard boxes of various sizes. Everything studiedly ugly except the merchandise, and the merchandise in gluttonous piles, with signs that encouraged mindless consumption as if it were the key to happiness. Even the name was a capitalist prayer or divine commandment: _Buy more_! She shook her head, wondering how anyone could work there - and then she remembered what she did and why she was there and she stopped shaking her head.

She started toward the Nerd Herd desk. She did not see Chuck anywhere. There was a short man with a beard, wearing a shirt that looked like it had served as a color sample for her apartment at _Maison23_. He saw her and started chanting the name - or maybe he was singing - 'Vicki Vale'. At just that moment, Chuck came into view from behind a stack of big screen TV boxes near the end of the counter, jutting into the aisle.

He had his arms full of electronic equipment: a couple of laptops, three phones, a couple of digital cameras, and some other bits and pieces Sarah could not immediately identify. Chuck had not seen her. He was looking at Morgan. He smiled - _there it was_, there it was in the flesh, and the intersection of Sarah's imagings and reality filled her with a surge of unalloyed pleasure. She felt herself smile, eager for Chuck to settle his smile on her. She blushed in both exposed and unexposed places...

* * *

Chuck worked steadily since getting to the store. He stayed as focused as possible on the job beneath his hands, his handiwork. He did not look left or right, did not look up. He was afraid to.

Morgan had come back and interrupted him a couple of times, as much to avoid work as for conversation. Chuck was not eager for conversation, for any kind of interaction. He had been quick to make sure the radio in The Cage was off and that none of the computers he was repairing were connected to the internet. No TVs were on. He had hurried past the wall of TVs in the shopping area, trying to stick his fingers in his ears unobtrusively (harder than he anticipated) and looking the other way.

After working for a solid hour or so, he had most of the simple repairs finished. He stacked them all up and headed to the Nerd Herd desk so that calls could be made and the items picked up and repairs paid for by the owners. Chuck had thought he was in trouble: as he neared the TV ets, he realized he could not put his fingers in his ears again; his hands were full.

Still, the hour of work had seemed to bring the world back into its normal non-sense. The Buy More was still the Buy More. Big Mike would still go down with the store when it sank, the last bit to be seen not a nailed-in-place desperate sky-hawk, as when _The Pequod _vortexed to its watery hell, but a glazed twist of Big Mike's final French Cruller, soggy yet somehow defiant.

And Morgan was singing the name, 'Vicki Vale'. Chuck did not expect that name to cause him any problem. He chuckled at Morgan's weird falsetto and smiled. He turned to the counter to put down his armful of repairs...

* * *

Sarah stepped toward the desk.

The bearded man looked at her, and she realized he was singing 'Vicki Vale' _because of her. _He looked at her, directing Chuck's gaze in the same direction. Sarah was ready for him to look at her and ready to look at him - face-to-face. She had no idea why a file and few photos had been able to do this to her, a file and a few photos and a fountain and a fountaining sister, but it had happened to her.

_What if he runs? _

_Kill him._

Chuck turned to the counter, toward her. He saw her. She saw his smile widen, felt his gaze settle on her, somehow gently. She widened her smile in response. She thought she was prepared for him, for his smile - and maybe she was somewhat for the smile - but it was his gaze that undid her. She could not put it in words: but he looked at her and saw her, not just the beautiful woman, not just the agent, the con, the daughter of a troubled marriage - her. The person she aspired to be and somehow already was, at least in his gaze. She inhaled sharply, feeling like her cover was blown, but in a good way, the best possible way. She spoke so that he could see her, because he could see her.

She spoke, the woman, not the agent, mission-less, falsity forgotten. "Hi, I'm Sarah."

* * *

Chuck turned to the counter and put down the repairs. He glanced up. Up. At the most beautiful woman - at the most beautiful sight, really - that he had ever seen. But his gaze did not linger on her features, itemizing them or recounting them: he saw her. Her face, her posture, all expressed a sudden openness, an unguardedness, alien to her. It was as if he had caught her daydreaming and she had not quite dispersed the lingering wisps of the daydream. She smiled at him, dreamily, dreams haloing her smile, but he was not sure whether the dreaminess was on his side of the desk, or hers, or shared between them, _mutual_, just their own, and…

_Flash! _

Images, a flood of them, images of the woman torrented into his mind, crashing against it like a cold, heavy wave.

Violence. Guns, knives, bombs, blood, death. Blood. Death. Images of the woman in combat, one-against-one, one-against-many. Images of her with a gun. With a knife. With a vial of poison. With a syringe. With her bare hands. Images of targets, dead. Bullet holes, stab wounds, death by unknown causes, strangulation.

But always, image after image, _death_. The ground bass in the funeral march of images. And blood. So much blood. Reports, files, notations, commendations. Assassination. Termination. Success. Success. Success. Agent. Killer. Assassin.

Sarah Walker, CIA.

She spoke. "Hi, I'm Sarah!"

Chuck's head exploded, he choked on bile, the result of both the flash and its content.

~"_Jesus Christ, Chuck, it's Walker! _ Sarah Walker, _CIA assassin_! She tried to kill me. She's here for _you_, Chuck. Run, run, run! Chuck, run!"~ His dad was screaming in his head.

* * *

Sarah said her name then saw Chuck's expression change violently. His eyes rolled in his head for a second and she thought he was going to be sick. He made a gagging sound.

When his eyes returned, refocused, they were consumed by fear, panic. Recognition. _Oh, God, no. He knows who I am! _

* * *

Despite the roaring pain in his head, despite greasy nausea gripping his gut, Chuck leaped toward the side of the desk, using the force of the leap to shoulder the stack of big screen TV boxes over onto Sarah, or at least into her path. He ran, sprinting for the rear of the Buy More, his long legs helping him cover ground at great speed.

* * *

Sarah dodged the falling tower of boxes, but they blocked her path. She stood for a second, frozen, unsure.

_Don't run, Chuck! Don't run. If you run, I have to kill you._

She saw Chuck plunge through the swinging Employees Only doors at the rear of the store.

After a second more of indecision, Sarah gave chase. _Feels like a mission now, huh, Sarah?_

Chasing Chuck. Chasing Bartowski.

Chasing the target.

* * *

A/N: And we are off.

I don't know that it will help anyone, I don't know that it helps me exactly, but this story came to me while listening to a Zero 7 song, _Swing_, off their album, _Yeah Ghost. _I guess it is the default theme song of the story proper. It's certainly running in my head as I write. And it is a great, great song.

Remember, responses keep the train running. Drop me a line, please!

Thanks to Beckster1213.


	6. Chapter 4: Getting to Know You

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_Danger, Chuck Bartowski! Danger!" _

"_Run, Chuck!"_

* * *

This story has its own rhythm. Lots of backstories to tell, plot to develop, exposition to supply. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

**Getting to Know You **

* * *

Sarah stood in the darkened storage room of the Buy More, panting. He was gone.

The target.

He had run and escaped her. For now.

She had crashed through the Employee Only doors, into the storage room. It was dark there and she tripped on a jumble of boxes in her way. More obstacles: The target. She lept up, her reflexes cat-like as always, and she got to the loading door as it clicked closed. It took her a second to get it to open - strange latch, a button - and then she was out, in the back of the store. She heard a screech of tires. One of the small Buy More service cars was careening out of the rear parking lot. She ran after it, desperate. She wanted to yell, to somehow get him to stop. The car sped away. Eventually, she stopped chasing it. Chasing a car on foot was hopeless. And chasing the target hoping to get him to stop running was not a good strategy. Given his face when he looked at her - not at first, but a moment later - he was terrified.

_Of_ her. _For_ his life. Prepositions.

She turned and loped back toward the Buy More. She noticed something in the street, a pinpoint of light flashing. It was a phone. She picked it up and pushed a button. The screen came on beneath the flashing notification light. It was a picture of Ellie Bartowski and a tall, handsome man, both smiling carefree for the photo. Ellie's boyfriend, the doctor - Devon. Bad news, good news. Chuck had been smart enough to throw away the easiest means of tracking him. Bad news. But he had given a version of himself, his mind. Almost everyone's cell phone was a capsule of them, of their life. She pushed the button again and the screen darkened. She shoved the phone into her pocket.

She had gotten back through the loading door - this time it had stayed ajar as if mocking her - and she made herself stop to catch her breath. She would get to her car and figure out what to do. After all, Bartowski was no spy, no hardened criminal. Yes, he had run. Yes, he had discarded his phone. Yes, he had recognized her. All that needed to be explained. Maybe he was in league with Bryce after all. Maybe he was somehow tied to Fulcrum. Maybe. _My gut still says no. _Sarah had looked into his face and she knew that he was neither spy nor hardened criminal. She had spent a lifetime looking into such faces - she had learned to scry the emptiness behind them. There was no such emptiness behind Bartowski's. Whatever had happened, it had happened to the man she had taken him to be, imagined him to be, before she saw him. He just was...he was _Chuck. A man I want to get to know. A man I have to kill. _

She took a step, heading out of the storage room, back into the store. As soon as she was back in the light, she saw the small bearded man standing in the aisle, looking at her with curiosity. She ignored him and he let her pass without saying anything. She left the store. She felt wondering eyes follow her as she did. So much for remaining low-profile.

She slammed her car door as she got in, the frustration and exhaustion of the day overcoming her. "Damn!" She slammed her hands on the steering wheel. Then let her head sink and rest against it.

She had, of course, had moments on missions when things went sideways, but those had normally only heightened her focus, allowed her to bury herself more deeply in the mission, to keep herself from considering what she was doing and to _just do it_. _Like those damn billboards._ She had not reacted like this before. Missions were detached, impersonal - professional. But Chuck's running...hurt. It had not been an inconvenience, an unexpected hurdle, a call to re-tool mission plans. It had hurt...her, personally. She had allowed herself to form hopes, expectations...to imagine his reaction to seeing her as...radically different….as what it had started to be before he…(eyes rolling back, gagging)..._knew_ her.

Knew her as the monster she was.

She had seen her monstrosity on his face.

His look, her conviction.

* * *

Chuck ran. Ran. Amuck. Not attending to anything but the killer behind him and the voice in his head. That was, not strangely, enough.

~"Run! Don't look back!"~ _Why do I want to look back? _He wanted to look back.

He dove through the doors to the storeroom, his hand automatically flashing out to shut off the lights. He toppled a pile of boxes as he ran, knowing the storage room well. He slammed into the loading door, hitting the button that unlatched it.

Then he was in the warm dark. He slammed in the side of the Herder he had driven to work, yanked open the door and dove in.

~"Hurry! Go!"~

He tore out of the parking lot, driving...unlike himself. He whipped the car around the corner, tilting up onto two wheels for a moment, then back down, tires screeching. The maneuver did not phase him, spike his adrenaline; he took it in stride. He was focused, in control of the car. He spoke aloud but to his dad. "We need a plan." He jammed the accelerator to the floor, the sewing-machine engine of the Herder screaming in response as the car shot forward, under his command. Weird. But Chuck's thoughts were halted by his dad's voice.

~"I should have warned you, Chuck. Seen this coming. But this...disembodied, _on/off_ thing is...new to me. I've been confused when I was _on_. I wonder…"~

"Don't _wonder_, Dad. Tell me what to do!"

~"Look, Chuck, for now, just drive. Get us to the freeway and then off an early exit. I won't be with you long unless you keep flashing…"~

Chuck drove, his dad talked: ~"You threw away your phone, like I said, _good_. What was on it?"~

"Normal stuff, Dad. I am a normal guy."

~"No, Chuck, you aren't. You never have been. You are special, Chuck. So much more than you know. That we are having _this _conversation proves it. But we don't have time for history. We're against the knife's edge. Walker, she's a specialist with knives, by the way…"~

Chuck broke in. "I know. I saw. Lots of...stab wounds, some stabbing…" He felt his stomach lurch.

~"Chuck, this thing in your head, the Intersect - I know, stupid name, like I asked Al Gore to help me name it - did not just come with me on board. It came with the complete files of the CIA and the NSA, complete as of a week or so ago. You know all that they know. More, really, because the Intersect also discerns patterns, connects things. You were always exceptional at that, Chuck, on your own. With the Intersect, it is like, well, certain flashes will be as close to understanding _sub specie aeternitatas _as a more mortal is likely to get."~

"Dad, _ixna _the _igpa atinla_, please. English me."

"_Seeing from the God's Eye point of view_, Chuck, universal knowledge, at least as close as anyone gets on this side of the blue. It'll take time, but it will happen. Anyway, what you have in your head makes you the greatest security threat, and the greatest security possibility, the country has. The CIA and the NSA really face an _either/or_ with you. Use you, which will mean imprisoning you in a bunker, likely, and...squeezing...information from you. Or, kill you, which will mean losing the only existing version of the best Intersect I ever created. That they sent Walker does not mean the CIA has made their final call, but it does mean they are prepared to kill you. No, more, _expecting_ to kill you. Walker _finishes _things. She almost never fails…"

"_She fails? _That's good news. I saw successes. If you can call that 'success'." Chuck fell silent. "She doesn't look like a killer, Dad."

~"She was made not to look like a killer. But she is. You know it. You must have flashed on her files. When I said you have the complete files, Chuck, I mean _complete. _That foul, jackass CIA Director, Langston Graham, thought his personal flies and his personal computer were safe from me. Nothing connected to the Internet, no matter how remotely, is safe...not from _me_, anyway. You have it all, even the things Graham thinks only he has, the things General Beckman of the NSA thinks only she has…"~

Chuck had jerked at the name of Graham. Again at Beckman. Two flashes in quick succession. Images, histories. Graham's smiling villainy; Beckman's twisted duty. It all rolled over Chuck but he fought it, tried to keep his eyes open despite the overwhelming pain, tried to watch the road. To keep driving in the masterful way he was suddenly driving.

"God, Dad, it hurts. It hurts so much."

~ "I'm so sorry, son. _So sorry_. I know...I never meant for you to have to carry this cross, I really didn't...I can help with the pain, and help with hiding. Go to this address, let me tell you what to do…" ~

Chuck listened to the address and instructions. "But, Dad, that address, that's…"

~"I know, Chuck. I know…"~ Even in his head, even as his Dad's voice began to sound metallic, to break up, Chuck could hear the sadness in it.

* * *

Sarah lifted her head up from the steering wheel and pulled the target's phone from her pocket. She activated it again; the screen glowed with Ellie and Devon's relaxed smiles. Sarah swiped the screen, expecting some kind of encryption. There was none. She thought of Ellie leaving the apartment door open when she went to see if...he was inside.

The menu of apps displayed (there were a _lot _of them, including apps she had never heard of, that seemed homemade, that did not seem commercially produced). She knew she should be on her phone, not looking at the target's, that she should call Brown or Graham. But she kept looking at...his phone.

She called up his gallery of pictures. There were some photos of him, but mostly there were photos of Ellie, Devon and the small bearded man, Morgan Grimes (Sarah realized), and a few of folks in Buy More uniforms. Few were posed but none were taken surreptitiously. Among the photos of family and friends were photos of places, statues, plaques, downloaded memes, downloaded movie stills. Several of Grace Kelly. Several. _Huh. _Some of the photos were of pages of texts - poems, quotations, pages from owner's manuals, even a few pages of contextless equations, logic proofs and stretches programming.

She scrolled back to one of the few selfies. In it, Chuck...the target was not smiling. A self-dissatisfaction and a subtle pain emanated from the photo. It touched Sarah's heart, made contact with the center of her, cutting through the Byzantine walls that hid her heart from the world, from her work, from herself. She gasped silently at the galvanic effect. The Stanford photo had weakened and confused her. This photo somehow overthrew her. But she was not willing to surrender. What would follow surrender? She would hold the walls until they had not only been breached but had fallen She would be Jericho, not Constantinople.

She left the photo gallery and called up his email program. The fateful email from Bryce was there, marked _Read_. She opened it, but there was no text, no message...no attachment. His other recent emails were mostly from Morgan or were spam. Two were from someone who signed his name, Big Mike, and were reminders of upcoming Assistant Manager Interviews at the Buy More. Neither had been deleted but neither had been opened.

She closed the email app and went to the GPS. His travel history showed him having visited many addresses in and around Burbank, but there was no record of him leaving LA, traveling anywhere distant. None of the addresses struck her as of immediate interest.

She looked at his texts. Lots of daily matters discussed with Ellie. A few invitations from Devon to go on Xtreme sports adventures, always with the answer: "Thanks, Captain, my Captain, someday." _Captain, my Captain? _

She found a brief exchange with a woman, Susan, a few months ago. A date. A couple of emails from Chuck to her after the date but no responses from Susan. _Good. -No, that's too bad. No, I am not supposed to care either way. _Seeing nothing else that called for attention, she spent a few minutes looking through his call log. Nothing there that caught her attention, either.

She looked through the other apps, noting one marked _Secure Folder_. At last, she encountered what she expected. She needed a password to open it. She looked up, staring at her windshield, trying to imagine what the password might be. Using one of the attempts at random seemed a bad idea, but Sarah quickly typed in "Grace Kelly". The folder opened.

In it were photographs - but no naked photographs or photographs somehow 'explicit', or anything of the sort. Instead, there were photos of a bespectacled but attractive brunette, often wearing a Stanford t-shirt or sweatshirt. Sarah knew who it must be: Jill Roberts, the Stanford girlfriend mentioned in Chuck's file. Most were just of the impromptu, snapshot variety, and most were of her gazing into the lens. In most, she was smiling, the smile genuine, soft. A few photos were of the woman and Chuck together. Football game. Art exhibit. Comic-Con (whatever that was). One showed Jill at the Comic-Con in costume, dressed in a white, robe-like outfit, weird curls on each side of her head, like headphones. Sarah looked closer and _Star Wars _bubbled up in her mind. She was unsure: was Jill supposed to be a _Star Wars_ character? It was odd, all these photos of a woman long missing from Chuck's...Bartowski's...the target's life.

A cache of photos of an old-flame brunette password-protected by a now-legendary blonde. Odder.

The photos of Jill made her previous hurt seem to return. She left the folder and returned to the photograph of Ellie and Devon. The phone had not given Sarah a direction to go, not yet, anyway, but it did remind her that he had run but empty-handed. If he had the Intersect, it would have had to be on him (a thumb drive?) or in the car. It occurred to her that he had to have opened the email on a device. Given when he had looked at it, it almost certainly would have been on a computer in his apartment. He had not run out with a computer and she was almost certain he would not have left one in the car. She looked at the photograph of Ellie and Devon.

The apartment. Maybe the Intersect was there, on a computer. If not, maybe she could find a clue. She wanted to have a direction to go before she reported anything to Brown or to Graham. She did not want anyone else assigned to this, not yet. She needed to get to...Chuck...Bartowski...the target, first.

* * *

John Casey looked at the file Beckman had sent him electronically. Bartowski seemed...harmless. A little girl in a lanky boy's body. His life looked pretty pathetic. Why a complete dick like Larkin would have been Bartowski's friend made no sense. Why Larkin would have framed Bartowski for cheating made more, but not if they really had been friends. Who knew with college boys, fraternity boys? Too many classes asking them to _share. _Telling them to _parade _their ladyfeelings when, for any proper man, ladyfeelings were meant to be treated like itches in a place you did not scratch in public: you put up with them 'til they went away. Simple. Not painless, true, but simple.

Duty was all. Feelings, inclinations, were threats to duty. Their only real role was to be crushed under duty's boot heel. If you did your duty when your inclinations all went in the other way, that proved that you were what you ought to be, honorable, in charge of yourself and your life. If Casey put Bartowski down he'd hate having to do it, but it was probably a service to the gene pool as well as national security. No need for men (_ahem!_) like Bartowski to reproduce more of their kind. The country needed more men, not more ladyfeelings. Bartowski was probably innocent - innocent of the Intersect and the college cheating charge - but innocence really did not have much to do with anything.

Casey would do what he was told to do. He had been told to kill Bartowski. _Nothing personal, kid, just work_.

* * *

Chuck had abandoned the Herder in a parking lot next to a bus stop. He had not wanted to do it, but his father had pressed the necessity on him. He had taken the bus, changing several times, before he found a cab on a side street and took it to a mile from his destination, paying in cash. He trudged the rest of the way on foot.

As he had on the bus and in the cab, he continued to review the Walker file that he had flashed on. He was remembering it all now, not flashing, and although the pain of earlier flashes had his neck and shoulders knotted. Death and success. Chuck's remembered documents were available to him like scans - stable before his mind's eye, available to be read like a page in his hands. It was like he had a photographic memory, or like he imagined having one would be. He had read over remembered document after remembered document. Looked at photographs. It had been a gruesome experience. The photographs were often impossible to look at and impossible not to look at, like scenes in horror movies - but real.

Having read many of the documents provided context for the photographs, the images, the woman - for Sarah Walker. They did not make him less afraid of her - _God, she scares the living shit out of me _\- but his first reaction, spurred on by his father's panic, had been too wild, too visceral. She had killed under orders. She had killed, many times, by diverse means, in various corners of the globe.

He did not understand how anyone could have chosen such a life, could have lived it, lived _with it; _he did not understand what it would be to carry such a past into a future. Still, even as reckoning with her file made him tremble and his palms sweat, he could not shake or discount the memory of her, of how she looked before his infernal flash. She had not looked like a killer. She had looked like...a woman. And she had not looked like she was hunting him, she had looked like she was hoping for something from him.

_How can I be drawn to such a woman?_ _Hell, I ferry spiders out of the apartment in paper towels because I cannot bear the thought of killing them. _

And what did it matter, anyway? After the flash, her gaze had closed; she had chased him, even run after his car on foot. Huntress.

Worst of all, she had hunted his father, hunted _Orion, _the hunter.

Those were the documents that Chuck had lingered over longest. They were the only mission documents in her file that were not marked, "Success". She had not been faulted for failure to terminate his dad. Her mission had ended, not been labeled unsuccessful. She had, in fact, been called away from that mission and assigned another, one deemed more important. Chuck was not sure why the new mission was more important, but then he was unsure why his father had been hunted. The official explanation on the document was that he was a high-level security risk (like father, like son) and there was an implication, if not the outright charge, that he was stealing and selling state secrets. Chuck knew his dad had the technical skill to steal the secrets, knew his dad had - they were in Chuck's head - but he did not believe his dad would have sold them. But still, there was so much about all of this he did not understand.

It was real. He did finally understand that. Real. Not a dream, not even a nightmare. He had a head bursting at the seams with government secrets, and he had a woman of legend - the files made that clear, _Graham's Enforcer_, _the Ice Queen_ \- hunting him, presumably with the intent to kill. Two days ago he had thought that his worst problem was preventing another stomach pumping for Morgan after several months-old Crisper Mysteries from the Buy More's breakroom fridge.

That, all that, now seemed like a dream. Insignificant.

This was real. _This_. His past and his future coalescing. He did not need to wrap his mind around it. His mind was wrapped around him. Minds, actually. He seemed to have his own, his dad's and the fucking US government's. His head was a Crisper Mystery. He felt like he needed it pumped.

He stopped walking at his destination: Tarzana, his family's old house. _This is where Dad sent me. Tarzana. _

Chuck had believed the house sold years ago, the bedrooms where he spent his childhood now someone else's and alien to him. But it turned out that his dad still owned it, untraceably, and had used it occasionally. It was the last place, other than Stanford for a couple of terms, where Chuck had felt safe, happy, satisfied with himself. He did not feel like that now. His head had stopped aching and begun, somehow, to _burn_, as if indigestion had mountaineered from his gut to his head. _Can you have indigestion behind your forehead?_ Chuck rubbed his temples and sighed. He felt water on his cheeks. Tears? He looked back at the house, blinking.

After staring at it for a few minutes, Chuck walked to the front door, which now seemed strangely short - until he realized it was he who was strangely tall. It was he who had grown, not the house that had shrunk. He punched the doorbell, a particular pattern, and he heard the door unlock. He was back at home, a home he had thought lost. He had business in the hidden basement.

* * *

Sarah put her mask on last, as she slinked past the fountain in the dark. The water, so cool and clear early, lurked cold and murky.

She stood outside the window to Chuck's room, at least into the room she had seen Ellie enter (watching through the open door) when Ellie had been hunting for Chuck. Sarah was dressed in black, head to toe, wearing a balaclava that masked her face. She had gone back to her apartment and quickly changed and grabbed some gear.

Using a small flashlight bought at a gas station between _Maison23 _and the apartment complex, she checked the room. As she expected, it was empty. The apartment was dark, no lights were on. Sarah knew Ellie was there, and likely Devon too. She was taking a chance, but she needed something, some way to convince Graham to leave the mission to her and to her alone. She reached up to check the window's construction - and the window swung open. It was unlatched, and obviously, it was opened often. It swung easily, without any sound.

Sarah climbed inside. She swung the flashlight around the room carefully, taking mental notes. The posters, _North By Northwest_, _Tron. _The electric guitar. The stacks of comics and other books on the desk. She walked to the desk and looked more closely. The stacks were neat. There was a metal can, label removed, that served as a pen holder. The desktop computer was small, and, despite its name, on the floor.

The monitor on the desk was large. Sarah noticed a sticky note on the corner of the screen. It read: "I am a professional nerd." She took the handwriting to be Chuck's. She pondered that for a moment, longer than she meant to do, recalling the self-dissatisfied selfie she had seen on his phone.

She hit the spacebar on the computer keyboard and the monitor began to glow.

Again, there was no security on the computer, no password needed. She quickly scanned the computer for files. No file fit the profile of the Intersect. She searched more carefully, checked the trash. Nothing She found his email. There was the Bryce email, empty as it had been when she looked on Chuck's phone.

Working quickly, Sarah took her CIA laptop out of the small, black backpack she had on, the bag was a veteran of many of her missions and always packed in her suitcase. She attached the laptop to the computer. She used the CIA program and began to download all the files from Chuck's computer. As she knelt there, watching the process occur, she looked back up at the desk, at the monitor. She reached up and pulled the sticky note off it and she pressed it to the back of the screen of her laptop. She left the downloading to complete, and she stood up and she stole out of the room.

Careful to be silent, she walked through the apartment, looking at it. It was an attractive place, warmly decorated. A home. She looked at the photos on the walls. They showed either Chuck - _wait, I am doing it again, using his name, I can't seem to stop it _\- or Ellie or both. Two showed the kids, much, much younger, with a couple, presumably their parents. In one, they were standing in front of a house, beside a realtor's sign: _Sold_. Sarah looked more closely at the picture, her interest drawn immediately away from Chuck and his parents to the house itself. She reached into her pocket and got the small camera Graham had sent her. She snapped a photograph of the photograph. Her instincts told her she had found something. She continued her look around, finding it all interesting, attractive, but nothing else of interest - for the mission.

She went back to Chuck's room. The download was almost complete. She sat down on his bed to wait. She stared at the screen, at the bar showing the progress. _Chuck...the target...sure has a lot on that computer._ Sarah, overcome by the same impulse that had led her to sit by the fountain earlier and touch the water, turned and ran her hand across the bed. Curious, she scooted herself further onto the bed, and then took off her backpack, laid back. Sighed aloud, then put her hand over her own mouth.

She was staring up at the ceiling. The same one he must stare at when he went to bed. She turned her head to see if she could check the progress of the download while supine on...the target's...bed. She couldn't. But turning her head brought her face against the pillow, and she could smell...Chuck. Instead of being troubled by that, it made her feel relaxed, made her uncoil. She turned her head further, slipping her hand up and under the pillow and she pressed her nose to it and slowly inhaled. The scent has a heady effect on her. She felt both safe and...sexy. She had not known those feelings could exist together. Sexy. And safe…

It had been such a long, long day. It had been a day she had allowed herself to hope would take a different path. Instead, she was on an old familiar path. Hunting a target. _An old path, yes_. She inhaled again, warm all over. Comfortable. _Not the old Sarah_. Comfy.

Safe.

She fell asleep.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

We should be on our Friday posting schedule now.

Chapter theme: Zero 7, _Pop Art Blue_


	7. Chapter 5: Divided Souls

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_Not the same old Sarah."_

"_His head was a Crisper Mystery."_

"_Nothing personal, kid, just work."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

**Divided Souls **

* * *

Sarah's phone buzzed against her leg, in her pocket. She snuggled down, deeper into the pillow, deeper into the bed. She could not remember sleeping so soundly in years.

Sleeping. _Sleeping?_ _Shit. _Sarah leapt out of the bed but had the presence of mind to land lightly. The door to Chuck's room was still closed. But Sarah could hear sounds from the kitchen. Humming. Breakfast preparations. The smell of coffee, bacon, toast. Sarah turned and began to straighten the bed, brushing it with her hands. She had taken her mask off during the night. It was on the far side of the pillow she had been...cuddling. _Cuddling? -Ok, cuddling. -No time to argue._

She knelt down and unhooked the laptop, long done downloading. She shut it but then noticed the sticky note on it, the one she had moved there from Chuck's computer. Why had she done that? She left it.

She put the laptop in her backpack, yanked down off the bed. She slung the backpack around her shoulders and headed out into the still-grayish dawn. The reddening horizon warned of the coming day. She climbed out the window carefully, then closed it behind her. She stopped and took a breath. She had her phone in one pocket. She felt the other. The camera was there. She stepped back into the shadow of a tall plant, took out her phone and looked at it. A text from Brown.

**Graham beside himself. Demands an update. Where is CB? Have you finished?**

Sarah sent a brief response.

**Situation fluid and complex. Report coming. Sending photo. Where is the house shown in it?**

Sarah pocketed her phone and took the camera out and pushed a button, displaying the photo. She pushed another button that sent it to Langley, encrypted. It would go to Brown since he was her lead analyst.

Sarah shoved the camera back in her other pocket. She had done these things while juggling the mask in her hand. The courtyard was deserted. The fountain was gurgling. She started across the courtyard quickly, but not running. She looked back. No one was watching.

* * *

Ellie walked down the hallway to Chuck's room, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. Sipping from it cautiously, she opened the door.

Empty. Chuck was not there. Empty. Wrong. The room felt wrong. Off. Chuck's bed was made but not quite to his finicky standards. His computer monitor was glowing, on. Ellie stood there for a minute, not quite sure what to make of Chuck's absence, or of the bed and monitor.

Maybe Chuck had been there and left early, really early, for some reason? She stepped into the room just as the monitor went dark, timed out, presumably. Looking at it, she noticed that the sticky note Chuck had put on the monitor, a cutting in-joke between him and her, was gone.

She looked in the trash can. Empty. Turning in a circle, she surveyed the room. Everything seemed in place, yet out of place. She walked out of the room, sipping her coffee, thinking. She went to the front door and opened it a crack. She wondered if it was warm enough to sit by the fountain and enjoy her coffee. Devon would likely be asleep for a while.

She opened the door farther, preparing to stick her arm out to take the morning's temperature, when she noticed a blond woman dressed in black, with a black backpack, quickly leaving the courtyard. The woman was carrying a ski mask in one hand. The mask seemed to be staring back at Ellie. Chilled by the mask, it took Ellie a moment before she realized the woman was Sarah. The blonde from the fountain. Sarah was the woman with the mask.

_Sarah? _

_Where is Chuck? _

Ellie realized the bacon was burning.

* * *

Chuck entered the house and followed his father's instructions. A whoosh of machinery was followed by a section of the living room floor sliding back, revealing stairs.

Chuck had taken himself to know the house had no basement. He was wrong. As the stairs were revealed, a light flickered to life, lighting the steps. Although Chuck had accepted that this was not a dream, he still found the whole experience dream-like. He never imagined he would be in this house again. Now he was, and it turned out that the house had previously unknown depths. Literally.

His dad had been adamant about the next few actions Chuck was to take. Chuck descended the short stairs. Lights flicked on, in succession, from near him to farther away. The basement seemed to extend far beyond the length of the house itself. Chuck forced himself not to follow the lights into the distance, as he was tempted to do.

Instead, he put his head down and crossed to a workbench not far from the stairs. As his dad had told him, the workbench had a drawer built into it. Chuck opened it. Amid tools and bits and pieces of electronics - and a few Tootsie Roll wrappers - was a box. Chuck took it out and opened it. Inside was a chronograph watch. The crown was unscrewed; the watch was not keeping time. Chuck hurriedly put it on his wrist. He adjusted the time, estimating, and then screwed down the crown. He shook his wrist, checked the watch. It was running. He put his ear near his wrist and he could hear it.

Tick-tock, tick-tock...

And just like that, like clockwork, the indigestion behind Chuck's forehead, the burning, cooled, cooled and disappeared. Muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxed, unknotted. He closed his eyes and sighed, long and low and grateful. He did not know if he had ever felt a comparable sensation of release, relief. His dad called the watch 'the Governor'. Another stupid name. _Fulcrum_, _Intersect_, _Governor_. _Sheesh. _Whatever the name, though, Chuck was almost moved to tears by its effect. He had thought that the effects of the Intersect were confined to flashes and to a period after the flash. He now understood that was not true. It was affecting him all the time, had been there all along, consuming him, his energy. That made sense, now that he reflected on it. How could he flash unless the Intersect was _on, _ticking over, ready to respond? He checked the box. An extra watchworks was in it, should the Governor he was wearing fail. His dad had explained that the Intersect was damaging Chuck's brain, that even the best version, the one Chuck had, was not remotely free of negative side-effects. But the Governor contained the damage, slowed it greatly. It would give Chuck time to save himself and figure out what to do, how to get the thing out of his head - which would mean getting his dad out too.

Chuck slowly rotated to face the expanse of shelving running into the distance.

His dad had warned him - insistently - about flashes that could be caused by items on various shelves. He was to go to the seventh shelf on the left and collect the large box he would find there. Chuck did. He carried it back to the workbench. Inside the box, Chuck found a laptop, a burner phone, a pistol and ammunition, a pocket Atlas, and an empty shoulder bag. At the bottom of the box was a key. Chuck picked it up and crawled beneath the workbench. There was a panel there, and, as his dad had instructed, he ran his hand along one side until he found the hidden latch. It opened, revealing the front of an in-wall safe. Chuck opened it, using the key. Inside, neatly arranged, was a stack of passports, a stack of cash, and a file.

Chuck grabbed the passports. The ones on top were all passports with photos of his dad but with various aliases. Chuck held his breath as he looked, fearing a flash, but there was none.

Beneath his dad's passports were three more. The first was one with a fairly recent photo of Chuck, and the name on the passport was _Charles Carmichael_. Chuck laughed out loud. He had no idea how his dad had gotten the photo, but he recognized it as the one from the Buy More, the one displayed when he was named Employee of the Month. The alias was one that he had made up himself, when a boy, the name of his character in a spy role-playing game called _Top Secret. _He had played with friends and sometimes his dad would sit in. Those were good times.

The next passport contained a photo of Ellie over an alias. The last contained one of Devon, also over an alias. Chuck's dad had been...prepared...And he had known. Known that Chuck was Employee of the Month. That Ellie was in a committed relationship. He had _known_. Chuck had never imagined his dad kept up with him or Ellie at all. He had.

Chuck put the passports for his father back in the safe. Then he stopped. His dad had said, back after the Intersect download, that being in Chuck's head meant he was dead. _Dead?_

Chuck had not really stopped and considered that in all the craziness and confusion. After all, hearing his dad in his head made him seem alive, sometimes all-too-alive. Was his dad dead, though? Chuck did not understand his father or what his father had been doing, why he had left. But he now knew that his dad had not forgotten him or forgotten Ellie. Even more, he had kept up with them, made provisions of sorts for them. Was he dead? Chuck felt tears sting his eyes but he blinked them back. _Dad?_ No time to deal with all that now. Sometime. Later.

He grabbed the cash and the three passports, his, Ellie's and Devon's, and crawled from under the workbench. He put the cash and passports in the shoulder bag and added the watch box. He left the gun and ammunition in the box. He then added the laptop and the burner phone and the Atlas. Chuck crouched down again to close the safe, but as he did, he stopped. The file. His dad had not mentioned the file at all. Chuck reached into the safe and took out the thin file. It was unmarked on the outside, plain manilla.

He opened it and found a black and white photograph of his mother. He picked it up and looked at it, admiringly. He had never seen it. It must have been taken around the time she and his dad got married. She was, even more than Chuck remembered, beautiful. Her eyes were alight with intelligence and resolve. She was a formidable woman, even as a boy, Chuck had known that much. Chuck gazed at the photo for a long moment, then he shifted it to the side. Beneath it was a copy of a CIA document. Atop it was stamped: _Code name: Frost. Missing._

Chuck's head exploded.

* * *

Devon had left the apartment and Ellie, with a rare day off, had poured herself a third cup of coffee. She had not told Devon about seeing Sarah, though she had planned to. Seeing Sarah in the dawn had unsettled Ellie.

Ellie was beginning to worry, to worry about it all, what it meant. After she had rescued her bacon, Ellie had tried to call Chuck. She got no answer. He did not often spend nights away, certainly not without letting her know, and had Ellie not seen Sarah she might have hoped that the explanation was...well, no, that would not have been like Chuck.

Sometimes he did crash on the couch at Morgan's after a late-night gaming or movie session. But would at least text her about his plans. And he always answered his phone or texted her back after she called if he could not take her call. Always. He knew she worried. She was functionally his mother if biologically his sister.

She was worried now. The worry was worsening. She should have chased Sarah down, asked her what was going on. But she had been so unprepared for seeing her and had been barefoot, wearing only a nightie under a robe. The sight had been so unexpected, the mask so bizarre, that she had not had a chance to process or consider; really she had just stood there, gaping, frozen.

She now had a funny feeling that the fountain meeting with Sarah had not been quite...real. She replayed the conversation with Sarah in her head. In retrospect, Ellie realized that she had allowed her immediate liking of Sarah to color her understanding of the conversation. As they had talked, Ellie had reached two nearly immediate convictions: one, that Sarah would be perfect for Chuck; and, two, that she would enjoy having Sarah as her friend. Those convictions had kept Ellie from wondering why Sarah would not have simply called the management company that ran the apartment complex (the number was on the sign out front), or why Sarah would suggest going to see Chuck at work. Sarah could have just called Chuck, if she was not going to call the company. Although Ellie was sure that Sarah had not expected to meet her at the fountain, she now wondered if Sarah had been there to see Chuck all along.

_But why?_ Did Chuck already know her? Did she know Chuck already? How could they already know each other?

_What the hell is going on?_

Almost as if in answer to her question, the doorbell rang.

_Sarah?_ Ellie put down her coffee and hustled to the door. She opened it and found...Morgan. She sighed. For so many reasons. She double-checked to make sure her robe was closed, and felt suddenly conscious of her bare legs. But the look of worry on Morgan's face refocused her.

"Hey, Ellie. Sorry to come at the break of dawn but I wondered if Chuck was here…"

"No, Morgan. I thought maybe he was at your place."

Morgan shook his head. "Nope. I haven't seen him since he ran from the beautiful blonde at the Buy More…"

Ellie gasped. She reached out and grabbed Morgan's hand, yanking him through the door.

"Whoa!" Morgan gave her a funny look. "Can't deny I've had fantasies that started almost exactly like this…"

"Morgan," Ellie growled, "never, ever happening." Morgan's crush on Ellie had been a curse on her existence for years. "Never. Not if we were the only living beings in existence and tomorrow was the scheduled heat death of the universe. Never, ever. Now, tell me about this blonde at the Buy More."

Morgan changed expressions and gave her a serious look, responding to her concern, and obviously, despite his joke, feeling concern himself. He was there, after all. And early. Dawn-ish. Morgan was a notoriously late riser.

He took a breath and began. "Well, last night, Chuck was working in The Cage. I was at the Nerd Herd desk, covering for him there. I look up and Vicki Vale walks in. I mean, you know, a beautiful blonde walks in. Tall, gorgeous. I start singing that Prince song, you know, 'Bat Dance'." He sang for a minute. Ellie made a face. "Anyway, an old song now, I guess. Just then Chuck walks up, arms stuffed with repairs. He puts them down and looks up - at her. And there was this..._moment_. As they say, you know, like before a huge thunderstorm, when there's that weird gray but super-clear light and the leaves on the trees are all blowing backward, upskirt, you know, blowing so you can see their lighter undersides, and…"

"Morgan!"

He looked sheepish. "Sorry, but it was a moment. They had a moment. I don't think I'd ever seen one before, not for real. Without a soundtrack. So, Chuck looks up - at her. And she looks at him. And there's this _connection_. But then Chuck gets all...woozy. His eyes rolled, he made this awful, 'I'm-gonna-hurl' sound. He looked at her again, weird-like. Her face did not just fall then; it crashed. Chuck tore away from the desk, knocking boxes down and running like his life depended on it. He disappeared into the storage room. The blonde stood there for a minute, then she ran after him.

"I stood there for a minute myself, then. I had no idea what the hell had just happened. I guess I stood there for maybe more than a minute. Then I helped Jeff and Lester stack up the boxes. I went back toward the storage room. But before I got there, the blonde came out. She looked at me but didn't say anything. She left the store and got in her car. She sat out there for a while, looking at her phone. Chuck never came back." Morgan's face grew puzzled in remembrance. "For a little while, I thought Chuck was pranking me. Either that, or that he had eaten a Mystery from the Crisper…"

"Huh?" Ellie said.

"Spoiled, moldy, unidentifiable treats from the breakroom fridge. Um, never mind. So, I kinda wandered around in the store. Finally, I decided to go outside to talk to the blonde, to find out what was going on. By then, she was gone.

"I tried to call Chuck last night and got no answer. I thought maybe he and the blonde had...I don't know..._worked things out,_ you know…That they had a fight and then...made up. But he never called me back, not even a text, so I started to worry..._started_ to get more worried. When I still hadn't heard from him this morning, I came over. I don't get it. Do you know who the blonde is, Ellie? Do you know what is going on?"

"No," Ellie said, "but I met the blonde yesterday afternoon, by the fountain. I now think she was here looking for Chuck. Let me put on some clothes and we will see if we can figure any of this out."

"No need for clothes on my account…Perfectly comfortable."

"Morgan…" Ellie growled as she pulled her robe tighter around her and headed for her room.

* * *

Back at _Masion23_, Sarah threw her mask on the bed and took off her backpack.

Luckily, although Gladys had been at the lobby desk, she had been engrossed in the morning paper and had not looked up when Sarah went past.

_I fell asleep on a mission. In my target's bed! What the hell is going on? How can I be reacting this way to a man I really do not know, even if I know things about him? I am no sentimental fool. How can a photo of a smile and a moment's look undo me? How can a scent affect me so powerfully? It's my imagination. It must be. It's undoing me. Dad and Graham are right._

She stood in place for a moment, pondering.

Her mind returned to the weeks between the finish of Budapest and being sent to Burbank. She had been desperate for something to occupy her mind and, on a morning run, she saw a sign at a daycare advertising a need for afternoon volunteers to help special needs kids.

Unsure then why she did it, still unsure now, Sarah went back later that the day and volunteered. That began several weeks of daily weekday time spent with the kids, many of them with Down Syndrome.

At first, they had terrified Sarah - not because of their difficulties, but because of their absolute trust in her, their willingness, no, their _eagerness_, to accept her as she was, no questions asked. To them she was not Graham's Enforcer, she was not the Ice Queen. She was "the very pretty lady who was nice and good at helping and at games."

She had stepped out of a trustless world into a world of complete trustfulness. Doing so compounded the shock of Budapest. Sarah had eventually come to accept their trust, the wonder of it and the wonder of their lives more generally, and the weeks had sped by, happy, or as close to it as Sarah could remember ever being. For a while, and for the first time since an adult, she had forgotten who and what she was. She had talked to the kids, helped with art projects and read books aloud. She played games of make-believe with them. Those games, so like and yet so utterly unlike the lying pretenses of her life, CIA and con, covers and missions, changed her cramped psychological posture, allowed her to stand and stretch, as it were, after years of living doubled over, hunkered down. The shift in posture was also a shift in perspective.

To trust and to be trusted: she now knew that Budapest and the time she had spent in the daycare had reoriented her.

Chuck...the target...Chuck...well, she could not quite explain him, her reaction, but he was part of it all somehow. Something about him, first in the photo, then in the flesh, and then in his scent…the look in his eyes before it all went sideways. He saw her, _her_, before he recognized Agent Walker. In that first moment, his gaze, though not entirely the same, was as marked by innocent wonder as her daycare kids' gazes had been. He saw her for an instant before he saw the monster. Maybe she and the monster were not identical. _Maybe I can find a way to get him to see me again?_

She looked down at the mask on the bed. It had landed face-side up, and it seemed to be staring back at her, judging her. Condemning her. It saw the monster. She was supposed to be hunting Chuck... Bartowski, not falling back into daydreams about him. _Chuck. I am going to think about him as Chuck. _

The mask seemed to smirk at her, as if it were her warden, and she a prisoner hopelessly imagining escape.

Her phone buzzed. Brown again. He wanted her to call him. She dialed the number.

"Walker, here, Brown, sorry to have been out of touch."

Brown sighed in relief. "Glad to hear from you. Graham is climbing the walls. He wants me to forward you to him when you call. But, before I do, I have an address for the house in the photograph. It's in Tarzana. It used to be owned by the Bartowski family. The photo was taken when they bought it. It went on the market as a foreclosure years ago and was purchased by a company that I cannot trace. The trail goes back two steps and then isn't just cold, it's dead.

"Oh, and one other thing. We have video footage of Bartowski on buses last night, seemingly traveling at random. A taxi picked up a fare near the final stop and went toward Tarzana. The fare was paid in cash. It's not clear that it was Bartowski in the cab, but the direction is of interest, given house photo and the house's dodgy ownership history. Curious: what made you send the photo to me?"

"I don't know...It was the only one of its kind on display. All the others in the house, no matter who was in them, were about the people photographed. That was about the place, and it was still around, on the wall. Instinct, I guess"

Brown chuckled, then let out a low whistle. "Well, we will see, but I admire your instincts as always. Transferring you through to Graham."

The line went still for a second, then she heard Graham. "Agent Walker, report." No greeting, a command. She reminded herself: to Graham, _Bartowski,_ not _Chuck_.

"Bartowski ran. He's in the wind, but I think I have an idea of where he is or how to find him."

No immediate reaction. "What does it _mean_ that he ran? Does he have the Intersect with him?"

"I don't know, sir. He may. I checked his apartment and it is not there. I will be sending Brown the contents of Bartowski's computer in a moment, so he can check it. He's either hidden it or he has it with him, I guess, since I did not find it at his place."

"Do we need to make this bigger, involve a team?" Graham sounded both unhappy about the prospect and curious about how she would answer.

"No, sir. I can make this right, fix it. I just need time. After all, I am not chasing James Bond, I am chasing Chuck Bartowski."

Graham made a surprising, non-committal noise, then there was more silence. "Alright, I will leave it to you. For now. But I should tell you, we've picked up chatter. There's another player in the game. The NSA, Beckman, has sent in Major John Casey with a kill order for Bartowski. She wants the Intersect and, get it or not, she wants Bartowski gone."

"Why would she want Bartowski gone. She doesn't know he ran?"

"No, only you knew that. So, good question. I am puzzled about that too."

"Is Casey here?"

"On the ground a short while ago. He's a stone-cold killer, Agent Walker. Luckily, so are you." Graham inflected the comment like a genuine compliment. Sarah's throat closed.

"Then I need to go, sir. I will report back _asap_. Thanks for Brown, by the way, he's good."

"I've put my best on this, on Bartowski. Now, find the Intersect. Kill Bartowski if necessary. There are several cleaner teams in and around LA on stand-by. Just let Brown know when...it's finished. Good hunting."

"Thank you, sir." Sarah heard Graham end the call. The mask was staring at her, still.

She got the laptop out of her backpack and sent the downloaded contents of Chuck's computer to Brown. Then, checking her weapons, she grabbed her purse. Before she got to the door, though, she went back and took out the briefcase that had been in her car. She added the tranq gun and darts to her bag, made sure Chuck's phone was there, and then she left, headed for Tarzana.

In the car, she swore under her breath as she drove. She did not know Casey personally, but she knew his reputation. Graham was not wrong about him. The situation had gotten more complicated, more urgent. She sped up as much as she dared on the street. She had to find Bartowski. She had to find Chuck - before Casey did. Chuck now had the CIA's and the NSA's most feared killers chasing him.

No one ever imagines Death coming as twins.

* * *

Casey pulled into the parking lot of Bartowski's apartment - the one he shared with his sister and her boyfriend. _A grown-ass man living with mom, in effect._ _What a loser. _He got out of the car and marched toward Bartowski's apartment. He could feel the friendly weight of his gun, holstered beneath his navy sport coat.

* * *

Ellie came back into the living room. She had put on a UCLA sweatshirt and jeans, slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. She saw Morgan look at her then force himself to look away. She started to say something when the doorbell rang. She and Morgan exchanged puzzled glances, then she walked to the door and opened it cautiously, enough to look out.

A man stood there, tall, thick-chested and heavy-shouldered. Short, dark hair. He had on a blue sport coat and khaki pants, dark shoes. He had hard eyes and an unconcealable military bearing. He smiled at her but the smile, though enthusiastic-looking, exuded no warmth.

"Hi, I'm Jack Cason. I'm looking for Chuck Bartowski. Is he here? This is the right address, isn't it?"

Ellie's instinct was to nod and say _yes_, but her conversation with Sarah, and the image of Sarah retreating from the courtyard, mask in hand, was still fresh in her mind and she was now genuinely frightened for Chuck. Ellie was not sure how to respond. She finally stammered out words: "W...What's this about? Who are you again? Why are you here?"

The big man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed to scan the area around the apartment quickly before focusing again on Ellie. "Jack, Jack Cason. I'm with Buy More Corporate. I'd like to talk to Chuck about moving up in the company. We've heard great things about his work in Burbank."

Ellie did not believe the man. Matters Chuck-related were getting bizarre, out-of-hand. "Yes, this is the right address. But Chuck is not here. He had a day off...and he's out running errands. I don't expect him home before the end of the day, maybe later."

The man frowned and Ellie felt a slight tremble pass through her.

"Too bad. Well, I have business of my own to do. Maybe I will stop back by later on."

The man turned, his final words sounding more like a maybe-threat than a maybe-promise. He walked away. As he did, Ellie thought of a military parade ground. She watched the man walk away for a moment before she shut the door and stepped backward onto Morgan's foot.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, I didn't realize you were there, Morgan," Ellie said, spinning to face him.

"Who was that gorilla?"

"He said his name was Jack Cason."

"I saw and heard. I _know_ what he said," Morgan emphasized, "but I want to know who he _is_. What is going on with Chuck, Ellie? Why he is suddenly of interest to supermodels and super soldiers?"

* * *

Casey got in his car. Despite the fact that the woman - obviously, Bartowski's sister - had been reluctant, Casey thought she had mostly told him the truth.

Bartowski was not in the apartment. But he was not running errands. Casey would happily bet his wallet photo of Ronald Reagan that she did not know where her brother was. The kid had run. Casey's inclination to believe Bartowski innocent might have been wrong, after all. Why would he run unless he was involved?

Casey's phone rang. He answered it immediately. Beckman.

"Do you know who Sarah Walker is, Major?" she asked without preamble. Casey grunted affirmatively. "Well, she's in Burbank, and she's been there for more than a day. You are behind, Major."

"Don't worry. I'll catch up. And I'll kill the CIA skirt too, if I have to."

"'Skirt'?"

"Sorry, ma'am. CIA _skank_."

"That's better. Find Bartowski before she does."

* * *

_Frost._

Frost. Mom. _Mommy?_ CIA.

Chuck's eyelids fluttered. His head was in his hands and he was on his knees on the basement floor. He had bit his tongue and could taste blood. Although the pain had been intense, it became bearable quickly. The Governor.

~"So, you looked at the file. I couldn't decide whether to warn you away from it or not. I decided to let fate decide. You were going to have to know sooner or later."~

"Mom - a CIA agent? A spy? _Frost?_" Chuck's voice echoed in the basement.

~"Yes, Chuck, yes...And she chose that...chose the CIA, chose missions, over her family, over me, and you and Ellie. She left to go on a mission. We fought about it before she did. She never came back, Chuck. I didn't know if she had just abandoned us or if she was dead. I still don't know. She was - she was a lot like that Walker. Or maybe I should say, Walker, is a lot like her, like Frost. The Second Coming, you might say."~

"You mean she was, mom was, an assassin?" Chuck shook his head. The woman who made him peanut butter sandwiches was a killer? His mom had tucked him in with bloody hands? The woman who read him bedtime stories? She kissed him goodnight and then went and terminated people?

~"Well, not quite like Walker. Not on that scale. There was no Graham to enforce for then. It was before Graham became Director. But your mom did do...wetwork. I should have known that no one who had done that could possibly live a life with any significant degree of normalcy. There's no coming back from some things. She promised she would not take that sort of mission after we were married, but I now know she did. She didn't travel for a pharmaceutical company, Chuck. She flew around the world on missions."~ Chuck was not sure how it worked, but his father's voice grew louder, edgier in his head.

~"She not only promised me no more wetwork, but she also promised she would always come back. You know how that worked out….I should have known not to believe her, her vows, her promises. The CIA, agents, liars all. Some, like Walker, like your mom on a smaller scale, killers too. Merciless, pitiless machines. Pretty exterminators. There's no coming back from that, Chuck, from those choices. They corrupt, they corrupt absolutely - eventually."~ Even in Chuck's head, the bitter acid of his dad's tone registered. ~"Betraying bitch. I don't think she ever loved me or her children, you and Ellie. I was just her asset. She married me to keep me chained to the Intersect. That's what brought us together. You kids were to keep me happy while I worked. It took me forever to get her to agree to have any. Hell, it took her forever to even say the words, "I love you". You wouldn't think they'd be so hard to say if you didn't mean them."~

"No, Dad, you wouldn't…"

~"But she didn't mean them, Chuck. She didn't!"~

"Okay, Dad. But I don't understand…" Chuck decided to switch topics.

"Look, I just had that massive flash, but there was virtually no content in it. Just that sheet I saw in the file and a dossier from The Farm, when she first joined. Her transcript from there. She was the best in her class." Chuck shook his head in disbelief. "My mom, star student at spy school. Shit. Why would so little information hurt so much?"

~"_Emotional connection_, Chuck. When you flash on someone you care about, it hurts..._extra_. I think that's connected with me hitching a ride on the Intersect. And, by the way, there is so little there because I wiped all her missions away. I left the record of what she was and how she became it, but I erased her missions, all she did as an agent. I didn't want there to be a record...of how wrong I was."~

"Really? Am I supposed to understand that? Dad, I may not remember a ton from when I was little, but I remember this: you _loved_ Mom, Dad, you were crazy about her."

~Silence.~

~"Yeah, _crazy_ is what I was. I did...I loved her, _past tense_, Chuck. I never should have loved her at all. Love is not just blind, it's deaf and dumb and lame too. She broke me.

~"Chuck, I won't be here much longer. You need to leave. They may find some way to link you to the house. Do you have the passports? The money? The other things?"~

"I have them."

~"Then do what we agreed you...would...do…"~ His dad's voice turned metallic then vanished.

"Always a hoot when you visit, Dad, especially after a fun-filled flash," Chuck said to the empty basement and to his now-silent head.

Chuck went back to the workbench After closing and locking the safe, he put the key in the box, and returned the box to the shelf. Back at the workbench, He found a piece of paper and a pen in the drawer, among the junk. He also found an uneaten Tootsie Roll. He wrote a note.

_Dear Agent Sarah Walker,_

_I'm Chuck Bartowski and here are some things you need to know. _

_I have the Intersect - but not like you think. I'd give it to you, but I can't. I know you are hoping to kill me. I am hoping you fail. You're the best at your job, or so I've heard. I'm going to be harder to find than you think, and harder to kill. I don't wish you luck. _

He stopped writing. His head was throbbing dully, but he smiled sprightfully and added one more line. His dad couldn't keep him from doing it, as his dad kept him from looking back in the Buy More.

_By the way, you are very pretty. _

_The Hunted,_

_C. B. _

He took the note upstairs.

He closed the panel in the floor and he left the note on the mantel of the fireplace. The Tootsie Roll he left atop the note. Then, he left his one-time, no-more home, and walked until he found a taxi.

He had a few stops to make, and then he was going to leave Burbank. He had never left Burbank before. Not really _left_. He was afraid, terrified - of what was in front of him and of what was behind him. Yet, he was moving. His life seemed to mean something again, to others, t_o himself_.

He was no longer buried in the nothing he had been buried in for years. The dust burying him had been unsettled, blown away.

Something had happened. Something was happening.

* * *

A/N: As I have mentioned, this is a complicated story. Little things are often big. And, as I have also mentioned, the story is rife with ignorance and ulterior motives and self-deception.

If you are reading this and like it, but are not responding, please do. (if you have responded, many sincere thanks.) This is an experiment and right now I am not optimistic. Lots of readers, comparatively few responses.

If all goes well, you will hear from me again on Friday. (When I get writing done on the weekend, I may post early in the week, but I will try to post on Fridays always.)


	8. Chapter 6: Near Miss

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

A little early, but it is almost Friday where I am.

* * *

"_No one expects Death to come as twins."_

"_Code Name: Frost. Missing."_

"_By the way, you are very pretty."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

**Near Miss **

* * *

Part One: Three Days Later (Early Wednesday)

* * *

Chuck parked the red Mustang in the blue-black shade of a vaulting ponderosa pine.

He got out of the car, stretched and yawned. Stooping, he reached back into the car, collecting the grey flannel jacket that matched the grey flannel slacks he was wearing.

He put it on, but loosened his tie, then adjusted his deep-tinted tortoise sunglasses. Breathing deliberately, he took a deep breath of the cool, scented air. He walked to the front of the car and leaned on the warm hood, half-seated, his arms braced behind him, putting one long leg across the other.

He could see Mount Shasta in the distance, its high, nearly flat peak and its snow-white sides. It jutted up into the blue of the air as if intent on claiming it. Chuck gazed at it as if fixated.

He sighed, leaned forward, pulled off his sunglasses, rubbed his eyes, then put them back on. He had been alone for three days, with little human contact except for transactions with total strangers.

* * *

_Chuck had gotten the car at a dank, sketchy garage on the northern edge of LA._

_It was the kind of place he would never have imagined going to even two days before. But it was the place his dad had told him to go, and his dad had transacted business there before. _

_Chuck's reception committee was a lone, giant, square, blond buzzcut of a human being, fully as broad as he was tall, with marble eyes squeezed almost out of view in a round, fleshy face, streaked with grease and grime. Although Chuck had expected to be nervous, maybe even paralyzed by fear when he arrived, he had gotten calmer as the massive square moved toward him. _

"_Hi! Stephen B sent me." Chuck said, his voice steady and free of shaking. "He said you could take care of me. Other than the cash I pay you, no papers, ok?"_

_Chuck was not sure what was supposed to happen next. The marble eyes glinted, and Chuck felt himself brace for violence - at least that is what it felt like his body did, reflexively. But the massive square did not move, only made a sound that it took Chuck a few seconds to identify as a chuckle. "Ok. Wait here. Standard package?" Chuck nodded. "Do you have an ID I can work from?" Chuck handed over Carmichael's passport. _

_The square took it and looked at it. "Good. It'll take an hour. You can sit in the office. There are coffee and magazines. Don't bother the artist at work." He moved away, toward the back of the shop, leaving Chuck standing. After a moment, Chuck walked to the office, a dirty glass enclosure near the front of the shop. It was empty. A coffee maker, the pot itself half empty, was on a table in the corner. A stack of comics was near the coffee maker. Chuck picked the top one up - frowning, it was Marvel, not DC - and began to read. _

_He tried not to contemplate where he was or what he was doing. The cash from the safe turned out to be a ridiculously large sum, well over ten thousand dollars, most in large bills. It felt crazy to be sitting there with that amount of cash on him. Chuck had separated it, keeping the bulk of it in his shoulder bag, the amount he would have to pay in his pocket. He kept expecting his palms to start sweating but they never did. He did not feel serene but he was...calm. Calm enough. _

_A few comics later, the square returned. He handed Chuck a set of keys and an envelope. Chuck checked the envelope. A California driver's license and a credit card, both for Charles Carmichael. The square spoke: "Car's out back. Mustang. Red. Or mostly red. Fair amount of primer. She's older. Her body's rough. Motor's good though." The square smiled, or at least it seemed like a smile. Chuck nodded and handed the man a folded set of bills. The man counted them and then looked at Chuck, peering into his face, thoughtfully, as if comparing his face to another. "Good. If you see Stephen B, tell him I miss our online chess matches. I believe I have a counter for his Caro-Kann variant that's given me so much trouble. My endgame remains strong. He's in real trouble." Chuck tried to hide his surprise, nodding once more. He headed for the back of the shop. _

_The square called out from behind him: "And remember, that credit card has a limit of $500. It's really just to prevent questions...in certain situations. Good luck, Mr. Carmichael."_

* * *

Chuck had slowly been wending his way northward.

After he had bought the car, he had bought clothes, including a couple of suits, just alike, one of which he was wearing. He had gotten his hair cut, cropping his curls and shortening his hair until it was just long enough to part. The whole idea was to look as much unlike his normal self as possible. He had even parted ways with his Chucks (well, they were in the trunk) and was now wearing a pair of dark dress shoes. The whole idea was to look unlike himself - and, if he was honest, to look like Cary Grant - Roger Thornhill - in _North By Northwest_. Chuck decided that if he was going to run, he was going to do it in a look-a-like of the greatest suit in film history. _Besides, if you are going to be chased by a deadly blonde, you ought to dress the part._

It was too bad the red Mustang was not a more fitting accessory for the suit. While the Mustang's primer pockmarks were the right color, grey, they, and the dents in two fenders, kept the car from looking its part.

Chuck laughed silently to himself, at himself. It was silly - playing dress-up while on the run for his life, but he not only needed to disguise himself, he needed to distract himself, and, frankly, to cheer himself. He was coping with it all, but only barely.

Chuck shut his eyes, the cool air after the long drive making him feel sleepy. Ever since the Intersect, he was having serious trouble sleeping. He kept having..._Intersect dreams._ Not flashes, exactly, rather memories of his flashes - still, they were disturbing dreams decorated with violence and images of violence, or by images that he did not understand. That would have been bad enough, but along with the violence and the images came the overwhelming sense that it was all _patterned_. That there was a discernible meaning in it, but one that lay just outside the grasp of his mind.

And then, starting the second night, in a cheap hotel off a back road, after waking in a frustrated sweat after an Intersect dream, he had gone back to sleep and dreamed a dream that belonged neither to him nor to the Intersect - it belonged to his _dad_. That was crazy but Chuck was sure of it.

It had been a dream of his mom, the same age as in the photo he saw in the basement, a memory-dream of her, but the memories were not Chuck's. _And, thank God, it was not _that _kind of dream. _Chuck had felt, somehow, and at a distance, vestiges of his dad's passionate love for his mom, the passion surrounded by a larger, darker longing, by pain and fear and gnawing doubt. Chuck had awoken disturbed and...embarrassed. _Sleep voyuer, gah! _

When he had finally fallen asleep again in the gray dawn, he had dreamt again of a woman, a spy, of _her_ \- Agent Sarah Walker, of her eyes as they had been when he first looked at her in the Buy More. He dreamt of her while tossing and turning. This morning too he had dreamt the blue of her eyes before waking to the blue of the California air. But, both days, just before he woke, he saw her gaze...Walker's gaze...Sarah's gaze...shut itself, the blue flash-freeze and solidify. He woke from each dream of her entranced, aroused, aching...and frightened.

He had avoided flashing since the basement. Mercifully, the Mustang's radio was missing, a hole in the dash, missing when Chuck got the car. He was careful to leave the TV off in the hotel rooms he stayed in (Carmichael always paying in cash). He had the burner phone in the car but he had never turned it on. He had yet to power up the laptop. This left him with lots of lonely time on his hands, time to stare at the walls, to think. To regret.

He had been screwed over. But then he had screwed himself over in the wake of having been screwed over by others.

He had let years of his life run through his hands like water, believing, he now realized, that he was revenging himself on Jill and on Bryce by opting out of his own future. _Some revenge. "I'll show you! Watch me curl up and die." _He was determined to take the yoke of his own life back into his hands. If Walker...Sarah...killed him, he would at least take the bullet standing on his own damn two feet.

The time to think made something else clear, something related: _Bryce Larkin was a spy_. Chuck had not had the time to put that together until he got on the road. He realized his dad had implied it, but it had escaped Chuck in the Intersect-and-Dad-in-my-head chaos. Bryce was not an accountant. Chuck had never quite believed that. Bryce was too..._Bryce_ to be an accountant. Bryce was not anal retentive in that stereotypical accountant way. He was an asshole, but not anal retentive.

Chuck's certainty received confirmation. The other thing time allowed him to do was mentally to review...Sarah's...files. He made himself go back through, one-by-one, slowly. He had eventually found a notation he had not at first seen - that she was partnered with Bryce. Bryce was a CIA spy. Sarah was his partner. _Partnered. With Bryce. _

Chuck had a long, bitter moment - or two, or several - after seeing that. He thought of a story he had once read about Michael Jordan, the basketball star, about how competitive he was, his sense of what was _his_. In the story, Jordan had a dozen donuts and had eaten one before he had to make a TV appearance. To make sure no one else ate one of his donuts, Jordan spat on each of the others.

Bryce was like that. And it seemed to Chuck that Bryce had spat on virtually everything in Chuck's life, claiming everything of Chuck's for himself, including Chuck's own personal assassin. _Well, that was some image, Chuck. Glad you thought of it. Not. _

Chuck was sure it made no sense to feel jealous of a woman you really did not know and who was hoping to kill you, but he was - _burningly, itchingly, can't-sit-comfortably jealous_. Nonsense, but it was how he felt. The cherry atop his miserable loneliness.

Looking at Mount Shasta, Chuck considered other things he had flashed on about Sarah. Her time at Harvard. Her brief stint with the Secret Service. Surprises, both. But most fascinating was the small print, so to speak, on Graham's personal evaluations of her missions.

Always begrudgingly, always briefly, Graham had conceded that Sarah had done her job while saving other people her missions endangered, often greatly increasing the mission's danger to herself. Read carefully, the evaluations suggested that under Sarah's icy exterior was a heart, a heart that contained warmth. A heart Graham mistrusted. A heart that had been present in Sarah's eyes when Chuck first saw her, before he flashed and knew her.

_Or is that right? Did I know her at first sight, or at second sight, or did I know both times?_

He shook his head hard. He needed to get her out of his head, his heart, except as a threat. Except that he couldn't. He continued to stare at Mount Shasta while humming a Frightened Rabbit song, "Get Out."

* * *

Cindy Swisher ('_Cindy' short for 'Hyacinth'_) was seated in a backseat of her step-monster's minivan. They had been driving for forever and pulled into a gas station so that her step-monster could go and do... whatever such creatures do in the Little Monsters' room.

Across the street was a tree-lined overlook. Cindy wished they had parked there, in the cool shade, and not where they were, baking the blinding glare, choking in the odor of asphalt softening.

Cindy was fourteen, with lively brown eyes and a thicket of curly, dark-blonde hair - she was cute, and she knew it. She was beginning to take deliberate notice of the men around her, especially handsome ones. She was alternating between looking out the window and scrolling through her Facebook feed (mainly the latter). When she looked out the window this time, she saw a tall man in a killer suit leaning against a mottled car, suit and car mismatched. _Still_, _wow!_ She called up the camera on her phone. Touching the screen and spreading her fingers, she adjusted for a close-up, carefully framing the man's handsome profile on the screen, Mount Shasta off in the distance.

She snapped the photo and posted it on her feed with a comment: "Natural beauty."

She had more than thirty likes in fewer than thirty seconds.

* * *

Sarah shifted in her seat, trying to stretch her legs. Frustration was mounting. A few days and nothing. She had no idea where Chuck had gone. It was as if he had melted, then evaporated, solid to liquid to gas, and blown away. The last time she had been so frustrated in a chase was when she had chased Orion across Europe.

The doors of the hospital swung open and Sarah sat up, but none of the women emerging was Ellie. Tailing Ellie - planting bugs in the apartment and in her lab at the hospital - had been easy enough but it made Sarah melancholy and ashamed. Sarah really believed that she and Ellie could have been friends, would have been friends, under different circumstances.

_In a different life. _

The thought saddened Sarah anew. The one thing that made it better, to the extent it could be made better, was the fact that tailing Ellie and spying on her had a dual purpose. Sarah was trying to find Chuck, yes, but she was also watching over Ellie. Sarah feared that Casey, who was almost certainly in town and, like Sarah, was growing desperate (since Sarah was sure he was having no more luck than she) might decide to try to use Ellie against Chuck. She knew of Casey tactics by report. He ordinarily did not involve innocents, but he had done so, on occasion. She worried that this would be another of those occasions. As a result, she was spying on and watching over the same person: bizarre double-duty. It was worsened by the fact that Ellie was steadily becoming frantic. She had not reported Chuck as missing, but she was obviously haggard and distracted.

Over the last couple of days, when Sarah's sadness bottomed out or her frustration peaked, she had gotten into the habit of reaching into her blouse and retrieving a carefully folded note from her bra.

It was a note from Chuck. A note to her. She had not shared its existence with anyone - especially Graham. It was hers.

* * *

_Sarah approached the Tarzana house with the tranq gun held tight against her leg, out of sight. She had left her S & W holstered. _

_She came across the lawn diagonally, low, hoping no one saw her, but especially no one inside the house. She was near the door when she stopped. The door was standing open. Not all the way open, but more than just ajar. It was open. _Open_. In a rush of certainty, she knew Chuck had been there. _

_A Bartowski trait, this...open...thing. Chuck had done it on purpose. She was sure. She stayed frozen for a second, unsure what to do about the invitation, for that is surely what it was. Sarah shrugged at herself, straightened up and walked inside, slipping through the opening of the door. After all, she did not believe Chuck was a spy or a hardened criminal. She was unworried about a trap. _

"_Chuck?" Sarah's voice, loud but soft, rang in the empty room. "Chuck? I'm here. Are you expecting me?" Saying his name aloud, believing he might answer, felt novel, and good. _

_No answer. _What am I going to do if he is here? What if I capture him? Kill him? She needed the Intersect. Once she had it, she would have to figure out what to do with Chuck.

"_Chuck?" No answer._

_Sarah worked her way quickly through the house. It was mostly empty of furniture and wholly empty of Chuck. She came back to where she started. She had a nagging sense that she was missing something, so she scanned the room again slowly and deliberately. _

_She saw a Tootsie Roll on the fireplace mantle. She blinked twice and shook her head. It was still there. Stepping to the mantle, she leaned in, peering intently. Yes, a Tootsie Roll. Wrapped in the tell-tale brown wax paper. Beneath it was a folded piece of notebook paper. _

_Reaching out carefully - carefully, for what reason she could not have explained - she forecepped the candy between her thumb and her forefinger. She looked at it as if expecting it to do...something, remembering a bit from a magician, a con, a friend of her father's when she was a girl, part of his act: "Assure yourself that this is just an ordinary object…" After he said that, the object invariably exploded in a shower of multicolored confetti._

_There was no explosion, no confetti. It was just a Tootsie Roll, not magic, and certainly not a weapon of destruction. She put it in her pocket. She repeated the forceps maneuver with the piece of paper. She opened it. It was addressed to her. She gasped almost inaudibly._

"_Dear Agent Sarah Walker". _'Dear'?

He knows me. Knows my name. He thought I might find this place, expected I would find this place.

"_I am Chuck Bartowski…" _I know who you are, Chuck.

"_I have the Intersect.." _ Damn. "_But not in the way you think."_ Huh? What does he mean? Is it damaged? Broken? What's going on, Chuck?

"_I'd give it to you but I can't." _ He can't? What's preventing him? Even if it's broken, he could give it to me. I don't understand, Chuck. Explain!

"_I know you are hoping to kill me. I am hoping you fail. You're the best at your job, or so I've heard. I'm going to be harder to find than you think, and harder to kill. I don't wish you luck."_

_Sarah read the last five words with a wet, thickened vision. Re-read the lines: "I know you are hoping to kill me." _ Hoping? I've never hoped to kill, Chuck, even if I have hoped to complete my mission. Were those the same actions, just under different descriptions? I don't _hope_ to kill you, Chuck. I wish _you_ luck - but I can't stop. Even if Casey weren't out there, I still have my job, my orders. I don't know any other way to live, or I didn't until recently, when my imagination betrayed me by...becoming active.

"_By the way, you are very pretty."_ _Sarah blinked at that, the gathered tears finally dripping from her full eyes and running down her cheeks. Chuck! Who are you, Chuck? To write those words, maybe not eloquent in themselves, on their own, but in the context of the note, in the context of what was happening between them, those words were heart-stopping. _

He doesn't look at me and see only the monster, even after seeing the monster.

Oh, yes, Chuck, you are the hunted! But what am I hunting you for? _She felt her heart flutter and her knees weaken in answer._

_She tucked the note inside her blouse and tapped her pants pocket, feeling the Tootsie Roll there. She left the Tarzana house humming one of the tunes she heard on the radio a few days before, back when she was stuck in traffic. She barely realized she was doing it._

* * *

Chuck felt an unaccountable tug toward Mount Shasta. He leaned against the car a little longer, then turned to get back in and get on the road. Maybe he would drive to the mountain and take the road up it.

As he opened the Mustang door, he noticed a young girl peering at him from inside a minivan on the opposite side of the road. She had curly hair and bright eyes. She smiled and gave him a slow _Lolita_-like wave - and winked. Chuck waved back, caught the wink and then blushed. The minivan pulled away.

* * *

Ellie still had not come out of the hospital. Sarah's phone rang. Brown.

"Sarah, here. Go ahead, Brown."

"We found Bartowski." Brown's voice was breathless. "He's in...Weed, California. A small plane and a pilot have been scrambled, already waiting. Get to the airport, Agent Walker. I am still checking on some things, trying to figure this out. Why the hell is he _there?_ More info soon." Sarah's phone beeped. She looked at the screen and saw a Facebook post forwarded by Brown. Chuck - in a tie and sunglasses, his hair cut. Sarah noticed the name on the feed, Cindy Swisher, and the comment: "Natural beauty."

"Thanks, Brown. On my way."

"Good hunting, Agent." The phone connection went dead. Sarah's car engine roared to life. She didn't know Cindy, but Sarah, looking again at the post, agreed with her comment.

* * *

Chuck felt wistful and lost after the girl's wave. It reminded him how lonely he was, and how tired. Driving any more without sleep was reckless. He drove into Weed and found a cheap place to stay. He asked the desk clerk for a wakeup call at 5 pm. He'd get a few hours sleep, if the Intersect and Agent Walker...Sarah...would let him. Then he would get back on the road. Since he had gotten the car and started driving, he had a vague sense that he was moving in a direction, going somewhere. When he saw Mount Shasta, it was as if he had been steering toward it. Arrived. He felt a sense of clarity. A clarity he did not understand. But once Mount Shasta was behind him, he feared his sense of moving in a direction would be gone. He was not looking forward to feeling aimless again. He had felt that way for years; he did not want to go back to feeling that way.

* * *

Beckman sent Casey a text. Bartowski was on Facebook. The Book of Faces. The Book of Feces. Figures. Beckman had a helicopter ready to take Casey north - to Weed, California. _Figures, freaking Left Coast. _Casey had been behind Walker's car when the phone call came. He let her car get away.

He knew where she was going.

* * *

Part Two: Later Wednesday

* * *

Chuck was rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he walked into the hotel lobby. He had seen a coffee pot there and a hand-written sign that said: "Help Yourself!" He planned to do just that. He opened the door, hearing for the second time the tinny tinkle of the bell above the door. He poured himself a cup of coffee and was about to leave when the desk clerk, invisible beyond a darkened doorway behind the desk, came into view. Chuck looked up, and saw the local paper, held open in the clerk's hands.

**Local Son and Hero General Stanfield to Address Mount Shasta City Tonight!**

Images canon-balled into Chuck's stream of consciousness.

The Mount Shasta Community Center, the plans of its constructions. Schematics of a powerful explosive and a laptop detonator, a photograph of a suspected Fulcrum terrorist, early local paper tidbits about the General's speech and the plans of folks all around the area to attend. Local school children were attending to be part of a presentation for the General. Images of Mount Shasta itself, jutting into the sky. The General's history of military deeds and his political leanings. His appointment to the Chairmanship of an important committee on Capitol Hill...

...Suddenly, the gestalt revealed itself, the pattern became apparent: Fulcrum wanted the General dead and was going to stage a terrorist attack so that the casualties could be blamed on someone foreign, someone with lots of consonants in his or her name.

The images stopped, finally. Chuck saw black. Black. Grey. White. Black. Pain, so much pain.

"Sir, mister, are you okay?"

It was the desk clerk. Chuck realized he was face down on the desk, grinding his teeth in response to the pain of the flash. He had dropped his cup of coffee onto the floor, but the steaming coffee had splashed away from him, so it had not burnt him or stained his suit. Chuck stammered that he was okay and hurried out of the office. The event was about to start. Chuck had to do something, he had to help. He had to stop it.

* * *

Ellie left the hospital late. She was angry and tired and worried. She had not heard from Chuck and she was growing more and more frightened.

Later on in the day when Jack Cason had visited the apartment, the day when Ellie saw Sarah and the mask, Ellie told Devon about it all. He was concerned, but not worried. He thought that there had to be an explanation for it all - conspiracies were the stuff of movies, not Burbank apartment complexes. Ellie had fitfully agreed to wait, but she could wait no longer. She knew Chuck had been depressed at his birthday party and that, maybe more than Sarah or Jack Cason, was what really worried Ellie, chewed on the inside of her stomach. They had not really talked since the party and she had been unhappy with him when they last saw each other. Maybe she was to blame for this, not some mysterious, masked blonde and some ominous, hulking ex-soldier.

Chuck had some money put away; Ellie knew that. Not tons, but he had been saving to afford the deposit and first month's rent on an apartment of his own. Maybe he had taken the money and gone, struck out in a new direction? But Chuck was a notorious hand-wringer about big decisions: would he really have made such a change without consulting her, even if he knew (she had made it clear, she realized ruefully) that it was what she wanted him to do? She had wanted him to do it for his sake, not hers, though. He needed to _launch. _

She was headed to the Buy More. She wanted to see the security camera footage of Sarah's visit to the Buy More. She was going to take the footage to the police. She knew Morgan's schedule. He would be there and he could help. They had talked briefly each day, just to see if the other had heard anything from Chuck. Morgan was clearly worried too. Maybe today she could start to get - start to demand - some answers.

"God," Ellie said to herself over the sound of her car's engine, "I just hope he's not somewhere, pining, staring at those photos of Jill he has hidden on his phone."

* * *

It took Chuck about fifteen minutes to get from the hotel to Mt. Shasta City, another few minutes to get to the Community Center. It was on the outskirts of the town, and at the base of Mount Shasta itself, surrounded by pine trees.

He knew from his flash that the Center was a postcard, an alpine-looking affair (Chuck thought of _The Sound of Music, _heard Julie Andrew's voice in his head, "_The hills are alive..._"), built against a steep section of the mountain's foot, the front of the Center standing on great wooden stilts, its rear anchored, built hard into the slope. It was surrounded on all sides by a large deck area, allowing visitors to take in the view of the surrounding scenery.

It was lovely. It was a death trap. _The hills are alive..._

People were milling about, children running, yelling, playing. There was a crowd on the deck, enjoying the view. A small band of high school teens in uniform were on the deck playing music.

The parking lot was below the Center. Access to the center was by means of two long sloping sidewalks, one on each side of the building, like arms encircling it. Chuck jumped out of his car. Tires squealed. He looked up. He had opened the door and stepped in front of a car exiting the lot. His eyes met the eyes of the driver. The Fulcrum terrorist shown in his flash!

Before Chuck could move, though, the car lept forward and raced out of the lot. Chuck watched it go, torn, before turning and hurrying up the nearest sidewalk toward the center. He looked at his watch. 5:50 pm. The presentation was to begin at 6 pm.

Trying not to walk so fast he drew attention to himself, Chuck headed for the Center, shaking his head, trying to clear it of the dull aftershocks of the flash at the hotel. The Governor had helped minimize them, but it did not seem to be able to prevent them.

* * *

Brown was talking to Sarah in her headset on the plane. Her CIA pilot had taken her headset off. NTK.

"This is a strange man to chase. Is he even running? Don't know what he's been up to, what he is up to. Thank God for teenage girls, camera phones and Facebook.

"I now have an idea of what he might be doing there. Near Weed, in Mt. Shasta City, General Stanfield is going to give a speech. We can have you on the ground a few minutes before it starts. A car is ready. Really, this time." He waited for Sarah to comment; she said nothing. "Stanfield's never had much political clout, until recently. He is slated to head a committee on US intelligence. It might be a complete fluke, Bartowski showing up there the very day of the event. But it might not."

Sarah's mind was racing. What was Chuck doing there? Was he planning something? Had he been Fulcrum all along, or been involved in some plot of Bryce's? Had her instincts - and her heart - both been wrong? It was so rare that they ever agreed. Chuck had the Intersect, but not like she thought.

_What does that mean, Chuck?_

Sarah nodded hard at the pilot, who put her headphones back on. "Get me there as fast as you can make this crate go."

* * *

Chuck got into the building without any trouble. While there were local police around, no one seemed overly concerned about security.

The event had a carnival feel, small, local, joyous and carefree. Chuck got inside and looked around. The Fulcrum agent, if he had planted the explosive, would likely not have done it on the ground, near the foot of the huge poles, the stilts, supporting the Center, even if, in engineering terms, that would perhaps have made the most sense. No, he needed to be hidden while putting it in place, and the explosive needed to remain hidden so that he could get away and it would not be discovered. The underside of the building - that was the place that made the most sense.

There was access in a utility room that Chuck knew from his flash. He wound through the crowd, putting his sunglasses in his jacket pocket. All of the people were now schooling toward the auditorium for the presentation and speech. As Chuck got near the room, he saw that the door had a policeman standing next to it, however. Although Chuck was a bit short of breath, he was surprised to find himself otherwise focused, ready, not freaked out. He scanned the crowd, thinking about the door, and noticed a little boy, standing, not moving with the crowd, tears in his eyes. He looked lost. Chuck had an immediate impulse.

He walked to the boy. "Hey, there, little man, what's wrong?" Chuck folded his legs so as to look the boy in the eyes.

"I can't find my mommy. I let go of her hand. Now she's gone." The little boy sniffled and wiped at his nose. Chuck's heart broke a bit.

"I understand. Really. It's awful for a boy to lose his mom; it shouldn't happen. See that nice policeman over there?" Chuck pointed unobtrusively at the man. "Go, tell him your problem. He will help you, guarantee it."

The little boy smiled, wiped his nose again, then scurried to the policeman. Chuck saw them start talking, the policeman's kind smile. The policeman took the little boy's hand and started with him toward the auditorium. When they had moved away, Chuck went to the utility room door. It was locked. Chuck took out his wallet and using his one credit card in his own name, he used it to slip the lock. He stepped into the room.

There was a trap door in the floor with movable stairs attached. Chuck undid the latch on the door and lowered it. As he did, the stairs slid into place, leading down to a metal catwalk extending below the building. 5:57 pm.

On the catwalk, Chuck looked around. The catwalk extended in two directions, like a cross. Chuck was at the foot of the long section. He checked his immediate vicinity but saw nothing suspicious. He began to jog along the length of the catwalk, past the section intersection with the other direction of the cross-shaped catwalk, toward the head of the long section, the top of the cross. He checked. There! 5:58 pm.

Up in the support beams, Chuck saw a laptop computer on top of a large square of interwired bricks of C4. It was the exact explosive-and-detonator the schematics of which he had flashed on. The device could not be reached from the catwalk, so Chuck reached up to the support beams and swung himself off the catwalk, over onto another support beam near the device. Chuck looked down. He immediately cursed himself for doing it, expecting a dizzying attack of vertigo, but vertigo never came. He steadied his feet on the support beam and reached out to the device. He opened the laptop. 5:59 pm.

The screen flickered to life. There was a countdown, no minutes left, only seconds. 45, 44, 43…

Chuck recalled the schematics. There was no way for him to cut wires in time, and he had no tools to do so. To stop the explosion, he was going to have to stop the countdown. He could not get into the program doing the countdown in time, however. He pushed the off button on the laptop, but it would not go off. _Ok, bad phrase. _35, 34, 33...

Chuck had an idea. Morgan's laptop had been destroyed by a virus contracted when Morgan was 'visiting' the website of the startlingly flexible porn star, Irene Demova. The virus was a computer killer. Chuck was able to open another screen, even though he could not stop the countdown. The laptop had a wifi signal, apparently from the Center. Chuck called up the Demova website, _Wet Dreams_. A beautiful woman appeared on the screen. She said: "This is sexy." She kept saying it, like she was using the phrase as a countdown to herself. 20, 19, 18, 17… Chuck's fingers flew furiously.

...5 (_This is sexy_), 4 (_This is sexy_), 3 (_This...issss….sexxxxy…_)

Demova's seductive tones distorted. The screen locked. The distorted voice went on.

_This...issss….sexxxxy… _

The countdown stopped at 2.

_This...issss….sexxxxy…_

Chuck balanced there for a moment longer, in disbelief. He had done it. He, Chuck Bartowski, Nerd Herder, a professional nerd, stopped the explosion. He listened to Demova's now slightly demented voice as she again repeated: _This...issss….sexxxxy…_ Chuck felt so relieved he could have sworn he was relieved for two.

Chuck jumped back to the catwalk. He ran back to the trap door and went up into the utility room. He felt sick and also completely giddy. He wanted to gibber and he wanted to sing.

_The hills are alive…!_

Once he was inside, he stopped, hoping to steady himself. Then he grabbed a tin pail from the side of the room, yanking the mop out of it, and he vomited into it.

* * *

Sarah got to the Center about a few minutes after 6 pm. She had pushed the car to its limits getting there. She jumped out. She could see nothing going on below the Center, She took the nearest sidewalk and began running up to it. As she neared the Center, she saw a local policeman. She grabbed him, flashing her badge.

"There's a possible emergency. Have you seen this man?" She showed the man the Facebook post. He looked at it. "Oh, yeah, tall, grey suit. A little overdressed for the event. We keep things casual around here."

"Where did you see him?"

"He sent a little boy to me when I was standing here next to the utility room door. The poor little guy lost his mom. I helped him find her."

"Please, let me inside the room." The policeman looked like he might refuse, but he looked into Sarah's eyes and immediately stepped aside. Sarah entered. She was immediately struck by the sweet-sour scent of vomit. There was a tin pail on the floor; someone had been sick in it.

She saw the trap door and opened it. She went down the stairs, taking out the tranq gun she was carrying. She reached the catwalk and stood there for a moment. Then she heard a woman's voice, demented. It was coming from the other end of the catwalk. Sarah ran to it. When she got there, she saw a laptop open on a pile of C4, and a wavy image of a naked blonde: "_This...issss….sexxxxy…_" The blonde sounded like a drunk robot.

Trying to understand what had happened, Sarah stared at the laptop. _What the hell?_

She stood there for several moments, scenarios running through her head. What had Chuck done? Had he created the explosive and hidden it there?

_No. He stopped this, he did not start this_.

Chuck had somehow found the bomb and somehow figured out how to stop it. Sarah marveled at the thought, more sure of it each moment. _Chuck!_

She turned and ran back to the stairs, up them, into the utility room, from it into the Center. She stopped by the officer. "Stay calm and listen. Call for a bomb squad and backup to manage traffic. There's a device beneath the building. It's been..._deactivated_...but we need specialists to dispose of it. Don't let anyone touch it but the squad. After you call them, disperse the crowd, send them home, but try not to cause a panic."

The policeman's eyes had gotten larger with each of Sarah's sentences. "How do I do that?" Sarah shrugged. "You'll think of something. I have to go." She turned and ran from the building, taking the other sidewalk.

She scanned the sidewalk and the area. No Chuck. _Damn!_

Demova's voice sounded in Sarah's head. "_This...issss….sexxxxy…_"

* * *

Chuck got to his car and was driving away.

~"That was well done, son. Brave. You're aces, Charles, do you know that?"~

"Dad?" Chuck had not thought of his dad, but he had flashed.

~"Been here since...we...saw the headline. Figured out what you were doing, and figured you didn't need any distraction. So, care to explain? Irene Demova?"~

"It's not what you think, Dad. Well, maybe a little…But mostly it was Morgan."

~"You'll have to tell me next time. Morgan Grimes! Ha! I have things to tell you, things you now need to know…"~

His dad's voice became metallic and vanished.

* * *

Sarah drove away from the Center, depressed and excited. She knew she was unlikely to find Chuck, but she wanted to take a shot. She drove into Mt. Shasta City and parked on the square. She looked around hopefully, trying to find a tall man in a grey suit. She saw no one meeting her description, the description of the man she wanted. Her target. The man who had saved a couple of hundred lives today, Sarah was sure of it. She looked at her phone, calling up the Facebook picture again. "Natural beauty." _Cindy. _"This...issss….sexxxxy…" _Computer blond_.

_I agree, ladies. _

_Damn it, Chuck, where are you - and what are you doing defusing bombs?_

Sarah called Brown with a report. Brown listened in stunned silence.

* * *

Casey got to the Center later, after slowly swimming upstream through the traffic jam of panicked drivers leaving the event. His NSA analysts still did not have a direction for him when he got to the airport at Weed. It took them a while to come up with the Stanfield-in-Mt.-Shasta angle. _Morons_. That left him behind and playing salmon against the traffic current. _God damn morons. _

When he was finally able to park, he quickly walked up the sidewalk to the Center. Policemen were standing at the doors. He showed his NSA credentials. They moved aside.

"Who's in charge?" Casey grumbled.

"McKinnon. He's under the building with the bomb squad." The man pointed to the open utility room door.

Casey went into the room, down the steps and out onto the catwalk. A man was standing there, talking to another man in a blast suit. A pile of C4, cut wires sticking out, was on the end of the catwalk. A laptop showing a naked woman saying slurrily that something was sexy was beside the explosives.

The man who was talking turned to Casey. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing walking into my crime scene?" Casey waved his NSA badge. The man looked at it. "Jesus, _another _goddamn spook."

One of Casey's eyebrows went up and he grunted feral at the man. "That's _Major Spook_ to you, dickhead."

* * *

Chuck was several miles away from Weed, still heading north. It had felt like the direction to go. He was glad there was a direction it felt like he should go. He had stopped to get gas. When inside paying, he noticed a bag of Tootsie Rolls hanging near the cash register. On impulse, he put them on the counter. "These too."

The clerk, a woman, inventoried him, his suit, and gave him a puzzled frown. "Not my guess for you. Maybe some clove gum too?" The woman's smirk was audible but not visible.

Chuck shrugged but gestured at the candy. "Not normally my thing. My dad loves them though."

The woman's puzzled voice continued the audible smirk. "But you're going to be the one eating them." Chuck shrugged again and handed the woman some bills. "Keep the change."

Back in the Mustang, Chuck picked up his unused burner phone. Tossed it up and down in his hand, as if taking in its weight. He shouldn't, he knew, but he had a feeling. Call it a hunch. One had already paid off today. He turned on the burner and sent a text to his own cell phone, the one he threw out of the Herder as he escaped the Buy More.

**Agent Sarah Walker, how are you?**

There was no reply. Chuck frowned and started to turn the phone off when it buzzed.

**I'm good, thanks.**

Chuck grinned.

**Still behind me?**

He waited.

**Afraid so. Not by much. I believe you did good today.**

Chuck's grin matured into a smile.

**Me too. So you were there?**

He waited again.

**Yes, but too late to see what I most hoped to see.**

Chuck's brow wrinkled.

**What was that?**

He waited for a minute, expectant.

**You. **

On the burner's screen appeared a Facebook post, a picture of Chuck in profile.

After looking at the post and breaking into soft, disbelieving laughter, Chuck shut the burner phone off.

He rolled down the Mustang's window and tossed the burner in the gas station trash can. It clunked against the metal bottom. Still laughing softly to himself, he opened a Tootsie Roll, popped it into his mouth, and drove away, shaking his head and chewing in rumination.

* * *

Cindy was marveling at the number of likes her photograph of the handsome man had gotten when her phone rang. She looked at it as if she had no idea it could do that.

"Um...Hello..?"

"Is this Cindy Swisher? This is Jacob Brown calling. I work for the government, Ms. Swisher, and I want to ask you about a photo you posted on Facebook today?"

Cindy saw her step-monster look away from the road and look at her in the rearview mirror. "Who is it, Cindy?"

"It's the _government_…" Cindy said haltingly.

* * *

A/N1: Poor Cindy. Facebook. _Gah_.

What are you ruminating on? Drop me a line, please! If you are eager for a beginning-of-the-week chapter, share the fact. That you are excited to read excites me to write.

By the way, although there is a Weed, Ca., and a Mt. Shasta City, Ca., and, of course, a Mount Shasta, the Center is a mere phantasm of my brain.

We are just past the middle of the first book of our story: _Inheritance_. The story will take three books to tell: Book Two: _Fathers and Sons_; Book Three: _Family Curse. _

Chapter Theme: _Get Out, _Frightened Rabbit.

* * *

A/N2: Greetings from beautiful, sunlit Barcelona! I am teaching a couple of classes here during the next month.

Thanks so much for the responses on the last chapter! If you are enjoying this, do please keep responding, even with a short note (review or PM).

_Ellen G_: Hard to think of a better brief description of what I am doing than yours in your last review, thanks.

Thanks to _Chesterton_, _David Carner_, _Beckster1213_ and _Let'sGoRed_.


	9. Chapter 7: Terminal Disappointment

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_Besides, if you are going to be chased by a deadly blonde, you ought to dress the part."_

"_Did I know her at first sight, or at second sight, or did I know both times?"_

"_You're aces, Charles, do you know that?"_

"_Damn it, Chuck, where are you - and what are you doing defusing bombs?"_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

**Terminal Disappointment **

* * *

Part One: Wednesday Evening/Thursday

* * *

Sarah was still parked on the Mt. Shasta City square when her purse buzzed. She looked inside and realized it was Chuck's phone buzzing.

She had kept it with her, even went to the trouble in Burbank to buy a charger for it, and she had kept it charged. She peeked at it now and then.

Every now and then.

A text from a number Sarah did not know. _A text to me._

**Agent Sarah Walker, how are you?**

_Chuck_. Sarah felt butterflies awing in her stomach. It was as close as Chuck had come to speaking directly to her. No words at the Buy More - but then the greeting from his note - and now this text. She smiled, smiled more.

She should not respond; she should not give up the tactical advantage. She had his phone; she should not confirm that. She should not respond to him.

**I'm good, thanks.**

Her smile widened as she forgot tactics and strategy, and waited for a response.

**Still behind me?**

_Yes, but not like you think. I want you to tell me what is going on, Chuck. I want you to let me catch you. And I don't._ She responded:

**Afraid so. Not by much. I believe you did good today.**

He did; she was sure. 'Good' - good, he made her feel that way, made that word come to mind. But how? Why?

**Me too. So you were there?**

_I was but too late. I'm afraid I will always be too late where you are concerned. I wish I had found you years ago, before I...me...I sank from view, swallowed by the bloody quicksand of this life._ She shook her head, responded:

**Yes, but too late to see what I most hoped to see.**

_I want to talk to you, Chuck. Meet you properly. But it is too late for that. It was too late in the Buy More but I didn't know it yet. Still, I want to talk to you, Chuck. See you. Over the open sights...of my heart. -What am I thinking? _Her smile returned.

**What was that?**

_Who, not _what_, Chuck. You. My target._

**You.**

Sarah grabbed her own phone and quickly forwarded the Facebook post from it to Chuck's (she had memorized his phone's number). Then she forwarded it from Chuck's phone to Chuck.

She waited for a few minutes, but there was no more. Her smile slowly disappeared.

Starting the car, she headed back to the Center. Chuck was gone. She needed to see if any more could be learnt there.

When she arrived, the parking lot was empty except for official or emergency vehicles. She opened her door to get out, to go inside, when her phone - _her _phone - rang.

Brown.

"Hello, Brown."

"Agent Walker. I have a description of Bartowski's car. Well, I have a description of the car Bartowski is driving."

Holding her phone to her ear, Sarah headed into the Center.

* * *

Casey had seen enough. The bomb squad did its job. They told McKinnon and Casey that the laptop had been used as a timer. Someone had found a way to introduce a virus - one of the bombs guys muttered, "VD" - and shut down the laptop itself, fry it.

Casey went upstairs and found the policeman who had talked to "the other spook". The man told Casey about Chuck and the boy. It seemed clear that Bartowski had, somehow, and for some reason, prevented the explosion, saving Stanfield and all the townsfolk.

_This kid makes no goddamn sense. How did he know to be here? How did he know how to do it? Geek, I guess, comes naturally. But how did he have the nerve? Nothing in the file suggests the kid's a hero. Of course, you never know who is and who isn't until the critical moment. Learned that the hard way, years ago. _

Casey went to his car and phoned Beckman. She seemed puzzled by the news, but mainly angry that Bartowski was once again lost to them. It occurred to Casey that Bartowski must have spent a few hours in the area before the events at the Center. Maybe someone had seen him? Talked to him? Casey started the car and headed into Mt. Shasta City, calling up a list of local hotels.

* * *

McKinnon was grousing about rotating spooks.

Sarah realized Casey had been there, that he had a look around, and left. But he had also heard what the bomb squad guys had to say, and their conclusion was the one Sarah had come to, even if they had no knowledge of who, exactly, had done the defusing. Sarah thought for a moment about trying to find Casey and trying to send him in the wrong direction. She decided against it.

He would eventually figure it out, and that would be as good as declaring that she was on Chuck's side in all this. While she wasn't sure that was true, she wasn't sure it was false. She was not sure she would know what was true and what was false until she had seen him again, face-to-face.

Her phone rang and she walked away from McKinnon.

It was Brown, as she expected. "My team and I have been scouring uploaded video and photos from the event there, Agent. I'm sending you the results. You should have them in a few minutes. Until then, I will summarize. A suspected Fulcrum terrorist, Arman Klondny, is shown on the site an hour or so before the event, dressed as a city worker, IDs too. He is shown entering into the utility room in a band kid's video of him and his friends.

"We have no video or photos of him leaving, but we do have a snippet of a video someone took in the parking lot. A mother filming her daughter, waving for her grandma. In the background, you can hear tires squeal. The woman turned her phone in that direction. She got a brief shot of Bartowski. He stepped out in front of Klodny's car.

"It looks like he recognized Klodny, but then Klodny sped away. The mother turned the camera back to her daughter at that point. You can just see Bartowski start running toward the Center. No video of him inside but he shows up in a photo talking to a little boy and in another leaving the utility room. We believe he stopped the explosion. But how he knew it was going to happen, how he recognized Klodny, we don't know about any of that. I will let you go, the results should be on your phone now; you can see them for yourself."

Sarah watched them. She watched the video of Chuck with the little boy twice.

* * *

Chuck realized that the Facebook photo was likely to continue to cause him trouble. He found a hidden place in the trees to park the Mustang, back off the road near Medford, Oregon. He grabbed all his stuff, bags and luggage, and walked into town. Luckily, there was a Greyhound bus stop there.

He bought a ticket headed for Seattle. He had a couple of hours before the bus arrived, so he walked across the street to a 24/7 coffee shop. After ordering a cup of coffee, and receiving it, he sat down and got out the laptop from the Tarzana house's basement. He hit the power button and waited, blowing on the scalding coffee.

The laptop buzzed and the backlighting of the keys flashed. The light for the camera came on and words showed on the screen. "Hold Still. Security Scan." Chuck did not move or blink. A moment later, the words changed. "Recognized: Charles Irving Bartowski." The screen went black and then lit up again, displaying what looked like a normal array of pre-installed programs and apps. Chuck knew enough about his dad to suspect the computer could do much, much more than the mild-mannered initial screen suggested, but he was not ready to dig into it yet. He needed to contact Ellie, just to let her know he was okay. That was what he was going to do, despite a dogged reluctance in him to do it.

His feeling since leaving had been that it was better to just make a clean break, that Ellie, Devon, and Morgan would be safest if it seemed he had left them behind and cut ties. But that feeling had lately been fighting with another feeling, a feeling that felt older and more natural, a feeling that he could not just abandon the people that he loved, not even to save them. His dad had abandoned him and Ellie. Chuck could not stand the thought of Ellie facing another abandonment. He knew that the hurt from her father's leaving, never to return, had cut her deeply and that the wound had never really healed.

The problem was how to make contact with Ellie while not alerting anyone that he had. A thought occurred to him. Obscuring his electronic trail carefully, moving into cyberspace with a practiced grace that surprised him, even as good at this kind of thing as he was, Chuck quickly set up a fake business email account. From it, he sent an email to Ellie that was made to look like spam.

The subject line read: "Knock, Knock, I'm here!" and the body of the text went on, in labored, broken English (Chuck was rather proud of it), to explain an offer for an exciting new board game. Chuck knew that Ellie was always worried that important emails were going into her spam file. The Bartowskis were worriers. She checked the spam file fairly often. The subject line was from one of Ellie's favorite stories about their dad, a story about how she would always mess up Knock, Knock jokes by saying she was here instead of asking who was there.

Chuck hoped the line would be enough to let Ellie know he was out there somewhere and still okay.

Finished with that, Chuck searched for a map of Seattle. He needed a plan. He felt a still-more-noticeable tug to go there, but Seattle was big; he was not sure why he should go or where. The map popped up and Chuck scanned it absently, his mind remaining more than half on Ellie, his worry about her. He forgot about flashing until he saw the star over King Street Station. He felt his eyes roll back in his head. Not a good feeling.

* * *

Ellie was flabbergasted. She had gone to the Buy More to meet Morgan. They met Big Mike to ask if they could look at the security camera feed from the night Sarah visited the Buy More, the last time they knew where Chuck was. But they did not explain all that. As far as Big Mike knew - he got the story from Morgan - Chuck was suffering from sudden onset spastic colon and could not come to work.

Even without much explanation, Big Mike agreed, even eagerly agreeing when Ellie waved a Dunkin' Donuts gift card in front of him. His nose immediately began tracking the card. He smiled as he said yes, snatched the card, and walked away out of the office, leaving it to them, muttering: "Sweet, sweet bribery!" The last sound they heard from him was the wet kiss Big Mike gave the card.

Morgan sat down at the computer and reset the feed timer to the night in question. The feed showed Morgan at the Nerd Herd desk, and then it cut to Morgan, Jeff and Lester restacking big screen TV boxes. Sarah's visit to the store did not exist on the tape. Ellie stormed out of the office.

She stopped on her way out when she saw Jeff and Lester. She asked if they remembered the tall blonde in the store that night, but neither of them seemed clear about much. Lester told her she might jog his memory if Ellie could describe the size and shape of Sarah's breasts.

"After all, 'memory'," Lester intoned, his voice hushed, holding both hands in front of himself, cupped, "rhymes with 'mammary'.",

Ellie nearly hit him. She took two steps toward the door, and then she went back and slapped him, the sound echoing in the store. She marched out, keeping time with Lester's whimpers of pain. Morgan followed her but kept his distance.

"Ellie, I should've checked the feed. It never occurred to me it wouldn't be there. I didn't want to ask Big Mike for the favor without you there or ask more than once. Shit, this is bad. This is bad, right?"

Ellie bit her bottom lip in frustration, her worry now reaching a crescendo. Sarah was involved in this...this...whatever it was. It was all too weird. But what was this?

"This is bad, Morgan. I am going to call the police." With that, Ellie quickly walked to her car and made the call.

* * *

Sarah had looked at the photos and videos from the event. She had no doubts, but they showed that Chuck had stopped the explosion.

They also raised questions. How did Chuck recognize the Fulcrum terrorist, Klodny? From the video, it was obvious that he did. Sarah watched the video several times.

It was obvious Chuck recognized Klodny - but it was also obvious that Klodny did not recognize Chuck. What did that mean? How did Chuck know the explosives had been planted at the Center? Sarah could not get it all to come into focus, and it didn't help that she kept finding herself distracted by Chuck in that suit, stirred by it.

Her reaction made her think of her best friend, her only friend, DEA Agent Carina Miller. Funny that _Carina always thought Bryce Larkin was definitive of my 'type'. Guess not. But then again, Carina is often wrong about me. She might be wrong less often if I ever corrected her or told her anything real about me. _It had been a long time since Sarah saw Carina. In fact, Sarah had not seen Carina since before everything with Bryce had gone south. For all Sarah knew, Carina probably still believed Sarah and Bryce were together. Sarah had tried to call during her Graham-ordered time off, but Carina had gone dark and was in deep cover. _Maybe I will try again when all of...this...works itself out. I may need my friend once it does. _

* * *

Brown got the alert. The Burbank Police Department had been contacted by Ellie Bartowski about a possible Missing Person, her brother, Chuck Bartowski. The officer entering the information had no idea he had set off alarm bells in Langley, but he had.

Brown sighed. This meant it was time to go face Graham. So far, Brown had been able to mollify him with phone conversations. But the sister's actions and the events in Mt. Shasta City, and Bartowski's subsequent vanishment, meant that it was time for Brown to have to talk to Graham in person. Brown stood up and retrieved his cane. It was too tall for him, and, consequently, not as helpful as it might be, but it had been his dad's, and Brown would be damned if he would replace it or use another.

Putting on a sweater that had been hanging on the back of his chair, he started down the hallway. It was a long walk - a long hobble - to Graham's perpetually cold office.

* * *

Chuck checked his watch as the bus arrived at the stop. According to the schedule, he would make it to Seattle in time and could make it to the station on time. On time, on time. It would be close. He could have made better time driving, but the car was now likely known. It was well hidden. Chuck should be in Seattle before anyone found it, if anyone ever did.

~"This is a bad idea, Chuck."~ The argument that began in the coffee shop was still going on. ~"The bomb was one thing. This is too small, too inconsequential. Don't risk yourself for this. It's one life. She knew the risk when she took the mission, Chuck. Don't make me waste my brief time trying to stop you."~

~"I'm going, Dad. I can't just let it happen. I've made up my mind and my head is killing me, Dad. Just stop."~

~"There's more to all this than you understand. You are too important to risk yourself, Chuck. Walker is close now. She is going to kill you, Chuck, as sure as I am in your head."~

~"Strange surety, Dad."~

~"Chuck…" His dad's voice metalled and went still, but not before he recited an address in Seattle. But he had no time to explain its significance. Chuck repeated the address to himself, then his mind returned to Sarah.

_Will she kill me, I wonder? Why wonder? Probably. Maybe. Would she have killed Dad when she was chasing him? I guess so. _

_So why can't I hate her, forget her? Because I can't seem to do either..._

* * *

Sarah got a call from Langley. It was not Brown who sent it to her, but one of his assistants. Brown was in a meeting. Chuck's car had been found near Medford, Oregon. A fluke. A deputy pulled over to take a leak and noticed the car in the trees. According to the analyst, the town boasted a Greyhound bus stop. Two buses had left recently. One for bound east, the other north, to Seattle.

"Ready my plane and pilot at the Weed airport. I need to get to Seattle." Sarah had a feeling about Chuck - and it was time to act on it.

He was headed north. She was betting on it. She would beat him to Seattle and be waiting for him when his bus arrived.

* * *

Casey walked light-footed out of the hotel in Weed smiling. _Charles Carmichael. _Gotcha, kid. He called Beckman. Time to find out where Charles Carmichael was hiding. This was going to end soon, one way or another.

* * *

"What do you make of Agent Walker's...behavior on this mission, Jacob?"

Graham had his fingers laced together and was staring hard into Brown's face, watching his expression closely.

Brown kept his expression and his tone blank and business-like. "Her behavior? As always, she seems focused and laser-focused. Perhaps there's even an extra urgency about her. But I have not worked with her much. I mainly know of her through reports. 'Cold, efficient, single-minded, very single-minded. A loner.' Of course, she did work with Larkin, I understand." Brown could not prevent his lip from curling a bit.

Graham noticed. "Not a fan of Agent Larkin, Jacob?"

"Not a fan, sir, let's leave it at that, if we may."

Graham did not seem to want to leave it at that, but he did. "So you think it makes sense to leave this in Walker's hands, even given the...surprising...resourcefulness, and more, of her target?"

"Well, sir, as we have discussed, Fulcrum is embedded in the CIA, in the NSA. We need to keep anything Intersect-related in the smallest circle possible. Right now, CIA-wise, that's you, Agent Walker, myself and my team. Admittedly, I do not understand what Bartowski is up to, but maybe that speaks in his favor…"

"How so?" Graham leaned forward, staring harder.

"We know how spies act, how criminals act - does Bartowski show any signs? Yes, he is running, but he is also stopping, saving people. There are lots of questions about the Stanfield incident, but the end result is still the end result. Bartowski kept a lot of people breathing, including a lot of teenagers and children. Walker will find him; she'll know what to do with him when she does."

Graham studied Brown's face for several more seconds, then looked down at his own interlaced fingers. "Alright, but what about the sister, this Ellie?"

Brown answered. "She submitted her information. The officer put it in the system. I killed it. At the very least, we've bought ourselves a few days before anyone figures out the Missing Persons report is not circulating."

"Alright," Graham said again, unlacing his fingers and sitting back. "We'll stay the course for now. I want the Intersect, Brown. Soon."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

It was raining in Seattle. Chill drops blowing sideways.

_Surprise, surprise, Sarah. _

The last two times she had been there it had been raining too. She no more wanted to think about those missions than she did any of her other past Enforcer missions. Each of the Seattle missions ended with a single gunshot.

She really did not want to think about this mission, either, especially about how it might end. She felt queasy. Her legs were leaden. A dull ache, greyer and colder than the wet Seattle sky, had settled behind her eyes, and pushed outward on her forehead. She had to concentrate just to make herself breathe. She could not remember ever feeling like this - well, except for Paris, her Red Test. She had felt sort of like this that night. Nauseated by the simple fact that she existed. She pulled her long black jacket closer to her, trembling against the chill, against the chill outside her and the chill inside her. The time had come. _What am I going to do?_

The Greyhound bus pulled in, its headlights reflected on the wet black pavement, the rain making the late morning nearly seem like dusk. The bus stopped noisily. Sarah stepped back into the shadows, becoming nearly invisible. She slipped her hand under her jacket, onto the handle of her silenced gun.

She would do what she had to do.

* * *

Chuck wanted off the bus. He needed to get to a taxi and get to King Station. He was going to cut it close. He looked out the window. The bus stopped and passengers immediately stood, folks pressing into the aisles just for the relief of standing and the hope that they might get off the bus sooner. Impromptu conversations about plans in the city started up. Chuck stayed seated, despite his anxiety, continuing to peer out of the rain-streaked window. Pushing into the aisle would be counterproductive; he would wait his turn, his nerves stretching. As far as he could tell, everything outside looked normal, or as normal as things ever looked at a Greyhound bus terminal. He unwrapped a Tootsie Roll from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. His last one. _Weird. _

The line of people finally began to move. He stood up and grabbed his things. He got in line and stepped slowly, one step at a time, toward the door.

* * *

Casey saw Walker in the shadows of the terminal. He was looking for her; he figured she would get there first. Casey did not care, personally, whether he was the one who terminated the kid or Walker was. _Nothing personal, just work._ But he cared professionally. No CIA skirt was going to upstage him, John Casey. Casey put his hand on his pistol and slipped behind a decommissioned bus, waiting for Carmichael, for Bartowski, to take his final steps onto the wet pavement.

The Gods of War smiled on Casey. They often did. He was their soldier, their spy. A devotee.

Some of the Greyhound travelers, as they stepped off the bus, had congregated in a dampening knot on Walker's side of the door. They seemed settled into a conversation and showed no sign of dispersing. Now Walker had no direct line of sight to the kid. Casey did. This would be easy. The kid was going to have to walk toward Casey to get into the terminal. Casey could grab him, pull him behind the bus, and shoot him, _one, two, three_. Easy. Casey's car was nearby. He could probably keep Bartowski's corpse upright all the way to it. The rain would wash the blood away. Casey ignored the bile in his throat.

Beckman was going to be happy. Casey would to be...glad to be back in DC.

* * *

Sarah had not anticipated the small crowd of travelers forming beside the bus door. They blocked her view of the other passengers. Chuck was going to have to go around them to get into the terminal.

Sarah looked ahead, anticipating his path, and she saw Casey duck behind a parked bus. _Shit, shit, shit. _Sarah started moving, trying to change position before Chuck got off the bus. She saw a tall figure in a grey suit step off. _Shit, shit, shit. _He started past the small crowd, heading for Casey. Sarah finally got clear.

* * *

Chuck was hurrying for the terminal. He had to get to a taxi. He stepped past the group of tourists, talking about how the rain would affect their sight-seeing plans, and headed for the terminal doors. A man, a big man, stepped from behind a parked bus. His head was down; Chuck could not see his face.

Chuck heard a strange sound as the glass on the parked bus shattered, spraying on the man and on Chuck. The big guy ducked down, covering his head with his arms. Chuck ran. As he did, he saw her, off to the side, gun in hand. He heard her yell his name, then he was through the doors. He was not going to let her kill him. He told her he would be hard to kill. Besides, he had somewhere he had to be, and being dead would likely make him late.

* * *

Casey yanked his gun out but Walker did not fire again. She yelled at the kid, Casey saw and heard her, but the kid did not respond. She turned and gave Casey a look - her blue eyes as cold as living human eyes could be: Casey would not soon forget that look. She dared Casey to chase Chuck. Her look spoke pure menace. She would kill Casey if he made any move to follow Bartowski. Casey forced himself to meet her gaze, then he put his gun away and held up his hands. He shrugged. Walker looked at him for a few more seconds, driving her point home, then she turned and ran into the terminal.

* * *

Chuck had his answer; he was running from it. He wished he hadn't asked the question.

_Will she kill me? -Absolutely. She just tried and failed. She almost killed that other guy when she missed me. _

Chuck jumped in the taxi at the head of the line and told the driver to go to King Street Station. Chuck turned and looked out the rear window as the taxi pulled away. Walker ran into view, her blonde hair wet above her black coat. She looked at Chuck as the taxi got further away. He looked at her. He saw her mouth his name in defeat, and he turned around. He had other problems.

* * *

Sarah had done the only thing she could think to do. She had shot the window out of the bus. But Chuck believed she had shot at him, that she was, in fact, there to kill him, and had tried. The truth was that she had known, as she pulled her gun, that she could not do it. She could not kill Chuck. She did not know what to do instead - except, in that instance, keep Casey from killing him.

And then Chuck ran away from her. His look out the rear window of the taxi was not so much frightened as it was crestfallen, disappointed.

_Shit, shit, shit. _

* * *

Part Two: Later Thursday

* * *

Chuck threw wadded bills onto the taxi's front seat. "Double it when I return if you wait." He practically jumped out. He would risk leaving his things in the taxi.

He walked as quickly as he could into King Street Station. As he had approached in the taxi, he saw the red block letters that spelled out the name above the red brick of the building. As large as the building was, it seemed compacted beneath the bitter grey of the sky. When asked, the driver gave Chuck a brief description of the layout of the interior. Chuck had an idea of where he needed to be. He checked his watch. Like in Mt. Shasta, a day ago, a disappointing lifetime ago, he was cutting it close, too close.

He went inside - noting the beauty of the interior but too focused to linger over it for even a moment: the high ceilings, the tall-backed wooden benches, the ornate work on the ceilings and walls. Chuck stopped. He saw her, the woman from his flash. She was standing, talking to a man who was looking at her expectantly. Or, rather, looking _past_ her expectantly. Chuck saw two men moving slowly behind her, each with a hand in a pocket. Chuck had no time to formulate a plan. He just strode forward, aiming directly for the tall, beautiful redhead. She noticed him coming and gave him a quick second glance before once again facing the man in front of her. She was as yet unaware of the men behind her.

Chuck reached her and smoothly took her in his arms, pulling her snug against him and allowing one hand to slip down to her bottom and rest there. He kissed her with all he had, the kiss starting at the soles of his feet and coursing upward to his lips. He had to sell it. For a moment, the woman was limp in his arms, then tense, then she settled into the kiss. Suddenly, her tongue was in his mouth; she was kissing him back with passion - or at least a convincing pretense of passion.

Chuck pulled from her and looked at her. "Dear, it _is _you! It's been so long, we must talk. Come!"

Before she could react and speak, before any of the three men could, Chuck turned her in the direction he was heading and started walking her out of the nearest doors.

She kept walking, but she glared at him, her face flushed. "Who are you, and why the hell is your hand still on my ass? Although I admit, that kiss earned you certain freedoms."

"Hey, Agent Miller. My name is...well, let's not worry about that right now, let's just get you out of here before they hurt you."

"Hurt me? You moron. That was something I have been setting up for months. That man was going to tell me something of real importance at last."

"No, that man has been planning to kill you for weeks. He's on to you, Agent Miller, and has been for a while. He's been playing you while you were playing him."

The redhead glanced behind them, and Chuck did too. The two men who had been behind her were talking animatedly to the man Carina had been facing. She looked at Chuck again but this time without the glare, with a hint of apology and amusement.

"I guess if my ass had to get handled today, it could have done a lot worse," she smirked. They went through the doors and out into the rainy day. They found Chuck's taxi and got inside.

As Carina slid across the seat, she stared at Chuck with frank interest. "Nice suit."

* * *

The taxi dropped Chuck and Carina in front of a nondescript apartment building. Chuck got out and Carina slid across to get out too. Chuck had his baggage in his hands. They stood there in the wet, the rain falling with less conviction now, a dithering drizzle. They had not spoken on the taxi ride to the building, other than Carina giving the driver the address. Chuck had stared out the window at the wet grey-on-grey of Seattle.

"This is my place."

"But won't Smithers know about it?"

Carina's eyes narrowed. "No, it's _my_ place here, my base of operations. He thinks I live somewhere else, somewhere glamorous. He doesn't know about this place, no one does.

"Look, I appreciate what you did for me. And the kiss. I do. Really. I saw what you saw when we looked back; Smithers had planned something, son-of-a-bitch. I somehow got made. But who are you? How the hell do you know who I am? Who Smithers is? And how the hell did you arrive in the very nick of time?"

Chuck looked into her blue eyes, like and unlike the blue eyes he last saw at the bus terminal. The adrenaline rush of helping Carina was gone and an empty feeling had replaced it. Sarah's...Walker's...terminal blue eyes…

"I will tell you what I can. Will this be enough to get you to trust me? I know Sarah Walker."

* * *

Sarah walked around the outside of the bus terminal, on the lookout for Casey. She never saw him, not a sign.

She got back to her car, parked at a distance from the station. She could hear a siren. As she got inside, she slammed the door as hard as she could. Chuck's face came back to her, looking out of the taxi. Somehow, that look of disappointment sliced her deeper than his look of fear at the Buy More. It hurt worse. He believed she tried to kill him. Just when she finally acknowledged that she _could not_ kill him, just when she realized she was prepared to stop anyone who tried to hurt him, Chuck was sure she could - and would, given the chance - _kill him_.

_Shit, shit, shit. _

Sarah struck the steering wheel in time with her curses. And now he was gone again. He was smart. He had already proven resourceful. Who knew where he might go now?

What the hell was going on? The whole thing made no sense. Bryce, Fulcrum, Graham, the Intersect, Chuck. Casey and Beckman. What was it all about? What was she missing?

She got on the phone with Brown and played the one card she had. The taxi. She had seen the number. She told Brown Chuck had escaped in the taxi, but told him nothing else. He told her to stay on the line. He put her on hold.

Back on the line, Brown said: "That taxi went to King Street Station. Fare got out there."

"Can you get a look at the security feed from the Station, Brown, please? I will stay on the line again."

"Okay, but hacking that is a lot harder than hacking the taxi service." He did not put her on hold this time. "By the way," Brown began, his voice slightly distracted, the sound of his rapid typing in the background, "I met with Graham today. He's still leaving Bartowski to you, but I don't know that he will go on like this much longer. He wants the Intersect. Bartowski's behavior is confusing him. So, a heads-up: you need to get this done or make significant progress soon, or Graham will bring other agents in and find you another mission. He seems to have the idea that you might not be entirely...trustworthy."

Sarah did not immediately respond. Brown continued. "This line is clean, Agent. I will wipe the conversation as soon as we finish."

Normally, Sarah would not have responded at all. But she was so...miserable. "Graham doesn't think I am _trustworthy_? He...and others...taught me that _no one can trust anyone_ and then he wants to trust me? When have I ever failed him? When..."

"Whoa, Agent. Don't shoot the messenger - and when talking to you, that's not just a metaphor." Brown laughed weakly at his own joke. Sarah did not laugh. "I just thought you should know. Be careful with this one, _Sarah_, if I may...it's not just another mission for Graham." His final words were both a warning and an apology.

She blew out a breath, trying to contain her anger. "Sorry, and, yes, Sarah, that's fine. It's Jacob, right?"

"Right." Brown was silent for a moment. There was not even the background noise of typing. "Holy crap!" He whistled. "Didn't you work in the past with..._whats-her-name_, that DEA Agent, Carina Miller, the loud-mouthed loose cannon?"

"Yes, why?" Sarah tensed.

"Because just a minute or two ago, Bartowski was kissing her senseless inside King Street Station. I'll send you a still. What is this guy up to? I thought he was some kind of...nerd? And where'd he get that suit?"

Sarah's heart seized. Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. Chuck had Carina in his arms, his hand on her backside, kissing her. Kissing her. She was kissing him back. Chuck kissing Carina. Carina kissing Chuck. Kissing. Each other

_She likes to take what I want. Even when I already can't have it._

Sarah's misery and anger blended and intensified to a molten rage. "I'm going to kill him! And then I am going to kill _her_, _maybe twice_."

* * *

Bryce Larkin opened one blue eye, just a slit. He hurt all over, or he thought he did; he felt numb, mostly. Druggy.

He did not know where he was or how he got there. He closed the eye. Concentrating, he subtly moved his toes, his feet, his legs, his fingers, hands and arms. Everything worked. He opened the eye a slit again. Nothing would quite come into focus. There was a bright light shining in his face, practically blinding him.

After a moment, the light clicked off. Bryce opened the other blue eye a slit - his face now stereo blue slits. He could make out a face at his bedside. He smiled. Good. That worked too. His smile. His secret weapon.

* * *

A/N: Wait, wait. Bryce? Isn't he dead? Guess not. And Carina? _Chuck_ kisses Carina? As _kvnzhong_ noted in a review, "we're very much not in Burbank anymore"...

I'm enjoying responses to the story. I will try to respond in return (may take me a day or two, I have a lot going on). It is true that your reviews get you these unscheduled chapters. I don't care about numbers _per se_ but I do care about interacting with readers. Doing so inspires me to write. Even if it's just hearing that you are stil out there, reading.

See you Friday, if not before!

Chapter Theme: _Pink Bullets_, The Shins


	10. Chapter 8: Vertiginous

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_Still, I want to talk to you, Chuck. See you. Over the open sights...of my heart. -What am I thinking?"_

"_This kid makes no goddamn sense."_

"_Knock, knock, I'm here!" _

"_His look out the rear window of the taxi was not so much frightened as it was crestfallen, disappointed."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

**Vertiginous**

* * *

Thursday (Afternoon, Evening and Night)

* * *

At the mention of Sarah's name, Carina blinked.

It was once and quick but Chuck saw it. She looked at him again, the quality of her gaze shifting, changing. But she said nothing; she turned and walked to the building, stopping to punch in an access code. When she finished, there was a high-pitched buzz and she pushed through the old, heavy wrought iron and wood door.

Inside, she stopped and shook herself, almost like a cat, shedding rainwater on the large rug near the entrance. She led Chuck up a rather narrow stairway - it twisted like a climbing snake, and the landings were rounded rather than squared off. On the fourth floor, she headed down the hallway to the room on the end, 24. She punched in another access code. The keypad flashed from blue to green and Carina turned the knob.

She shot Chuck a look over her shoulder. "Enter freely, and of your own will."

Chuck shook his head. "Isn't that what Count Dracula said to Van Helsing?" Carina nodded, smirked and went inside, turning to hold the door open for Chuck. He stepped in and put his baggage down, his shoulder and garment bags.

It was only then it struck him that he had run through the Greyhound terminal carrying both. He shook his head again and smiled bitterly.

"What is it?" Carina seemed to think Chuck was reacting to her or the apartment.

"Oh, nothing, just thinking about the spectacle I must have...must be making."

Carina looked him up and down, still with interest, but not as frankly as when they got in the taxi. There was a hint of reservation, even calculation in her look. "I have to say again, nice suit. Although it is disconcerting to see Scottie Ferguson in Roger Thornhill's clothes."

It took Chuck a second. "Oh, right, Jimmy Stewart's character in _Vertigo_, Cary Grant's in _North by Northwest. _I guess you're right, I'm lanky, like Stewart."

Carina chuckled. "Yes, but you fill out that suit nicely. In all the right places." Carina's eyes made it clear which those were. "Of course, if you know Sarah Walker, you know all this would've been lost on her."

"Really," Chuck asked, the emptiness he felt earlier returning full-force. "What do you mean?"

"The woman is a popular culture wasteland. She truly has a one-track mind." Carina grinned and took off her jacket, hanging it on a peg near the door.

"For what?"

Carina's chuckle ended. "For work."

"Oh." Chuck looked at his shoes.

Carina looked at Chuck again but then turned, both arms sweeping outward. "So this is it."

He pulled his eyes up from his shoe tops and looked around. The apartment was not what he expected. Carina was dressed to kill. _Bad phrase, Chuck. _She had on a beautiful green silk blouse and dress slacks of a darker green. In her ears were diamond studs, and she wore a gold necklace with a diamond pendant. A tennis bracelet encrusted with diamonds was on her wrist.

The apartment was plain by comparison. The furnishings were not cheap but they were not flashy. The walls were decorated with paintings, mostly abstract, modern art in muted colors. A few odds and ends, well-chosen and fitting, a small statue, a vase, a standing lamp, finished the room. It was a room that exuded a calm charm. However, the information on Carina that Chuck accessed in his flash, while it might have suggested a certain charm in the woman displaying the room, did not suggest the charm was _calm. _Anything but. Surprising.

"It's nice; I like it. Really. But are you sure you are safe here?"

"Yes. Not even my boss at the DEA knows where this is, and she hates it. But I have gotten far enough along to make certain demands these days, and one is that I get a housing allowance when on deep cover assignments - to be used at my discretion.

"The bean-counters in accounting hate it too, but it is essential. You can't be someone else 24/7. You have to have a place to...let your hair down. To remember who you are and..._why _you are."

Chuck nodded. "I get that. A cover you never break would eventually habituate you into being someone else, maybe not the cover, but not yourself. You'd go crazy, or go native."

Carina gave Chuck a long, sidelong glance, obviously unprepared for the accuracy of his answer. "That's right...um...What is your name?"

"Why don't you just call me 'Scottie' for now."

Carina laughed in spite of herself, and her scowl. "'Scottie?' Well, okay, for now. Say, all you need's in the kitchen, the cabinet above the sink: how about you make us some coffee? I'm going to trust you, Scottie.

"But remember: you may have saved me, but I very well might have saved myself. I have...resources." Her eyes flashed and she gave him a suggestive smile. She bent over. Watching him, she pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster.

"I'm going to change out of these damp clothes. Do you need a towel or anything?"

"No," Chuck answered, "I'll just hang up this jacket and make the coffee. Shaken or stirred?"

Carina laughed again. "Surprise me."

As she walked out of the room, she picked up a remote and hit a button. Music, low, filled the room. Chuck immediately recognized the lyrics, although he had a hard time believing his ears. The song was "Someone Else's Parking Lot in Sebastopol", a song off The Extra Glenn's album, _Martial Arts Weekend. _

The song was short; Chuck stood, fixed in place, as it played.

_Outside the opera house in Sydney  
__I saw my life come crashing to its end.  
__I cried out to the scale tipper  
__On whom all living things depend._

_Sweet strains of Giuseppe Verdi  
__Suffused the evening air.  
__I wished, I wished, I wished that God would kill me  
__Instead of leaving me alone to see you standing there before me  
__That sad look on your face._

_You took me to so many places I never thought I'd go.  
__That was the worst place..._

It went on.

Chuck had not _felt _the words of that particular song, but for lots of reasons, John Darnielle's thin, expressive voice brought the words home to Chuck then and there; he felt them, lived them. They were concordant with the abysmal emptiness in his chest.

He breathed out through his nose and turned, walking from the living room into the kitchen. It was white and clean. He found the coffee things - Carina was evidently a coffee snob since the things were all for pour-overs - and he began to heat the water and to measure out the ground coffee into the filter.

He walked back into the living room and picked up the remote Carina had used. He pushed _Repeat. _He went back to the kitchen. Soon, the kettle was making quiet noises and Chuck was listening to them and to the finish of the song.

_...And I'd like to think that this will pass, this will pass.  
__I know it's not the case.  
__Of all the highs and lows and middle ends you brought me to,  
__This is the worst place._

He saw her blue eyes at the terminal. Sarah's. Walker's. _This is the worst place. _

He had a chipped cup of coffee in each hand when he turned and he nearly dropped them.

Carina was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

Gone was the green blouse and slacks. Replacing them was a short robe, knotted at Carina's small waist. Her feet were bare. She smiled, her makeup was gone. Chuck could now see the spray of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks. She looked less like a runway model and more like a college majorette.

He smiled back at her but felt the weariness in his own expression.

"Are you okay, Scottie? I thought the robe merited more of a reaction."

"I'm okay."

Shrugging but with concern on her face, she reached out for one of the cups, the one chipped the worst. "We need to talk."

She turned and walked back into the living room. The Extra Glenns were still playing, "Malevolent Seascape Y":

_...As a cool breeze came in from across the bay  
__You dug around in the sand  
__You came up holding something  
__And when you handed it over with that smile on your face  
__I knew the three of us meant less than nothing_

_I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything  
__I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything..._

Chuck held his coffee, listening, singing along under his breath. Carina listened too, curling up around her steaming mug of coffee, her long legs tucked against her, her toes just touching Chuck's thigh.

"So, The Extra Glenns? _Really_?" Chuck finally asked, unable to stop himself.

"You know them?" Carina seemed pleasantly surprised. "I misspent a lot of my youth, and in a rather dazzling variety of ways, particularly my college years." She looked away for a second, biting her lip and looking both repentant and self-indulgent.

"The Mountain Goats were the soundtrack of that particular four-year car wreck - and I like this side project of John Darnielle's."

"Me too. And I love Franklin Bruno, the other half of The Extra Glenns."

Carina gave him another long look, as she nodded her head slowly in agreement. "You are a puzzle, _Scottie_. You kiss me to within an inch of my life to save it - then you summarize the perils of deep cover precisely, articulately, and then you _sing-along-know_ The Extra Glenns." Her eyes got big, her expression, oddly, wholly ingenuous. "Are you some newfangled Renaissance-Man Indie-Hipster Super-Spy?"

It was Chuck's turn to laugh in surprise He almost spilled his coffee. "No, no, not at all, not really. Maybe the _Indie-Hipster _part's accurate though, but not the rest. Especially not the _spy_ part."

Carina sobered. "Then we need to get down to it, Scottie. If you are not a spy, how do you know Sarah Walker, and how did you show up in King Street Station today as if on cue?"

"I'm sorry, Carina…" He looked at her, checking if it was okay to continue with her first name and she nodded, "...but I can't explain all of that.

"Let's just say I recently came into possession of some..._information_...and that among the things in that information - sort of in it, I guess - was what was going to happen to you today. I couldn't let it happen if I could stop it, no matter what, but especially when I realized you were Sarah's...Walker's...friend."

Carina stared at him. Her eyes grew complicated when he stumbled on Walker's name. '_Walker', Chuck. Walker. Distance yourself. She tried to kill you. _

"As far as Agent Walker goes, let's just say our paths have..._crossed_...a couple of times. Long story, and one I'm not going to tell you, Carina."

Unresponsive, she gazed at him for a long time. "Well, tell me this: what do you make of Blondie?"

Chuck shook his head. "Blondie? Not a nickname that would have occurred to me. As to what I make of her..." He paused, trying to think of something to say, and in the pause, simply blurted out: "She's very pretty."

Carina's face sprouted a small, frowny smile. "Yes, _she_ is. _Almost_ as pretty as me. Almost. I mean, unless you like blondes. But, _Scottie, _I guess you do like blondes, right? _Madeline Elster,_ Kim Novak, following her around San Francisco, graveyards and redwoods? But remember, Scottie, he, you, later fell for a brunette, _Judy Barton_, again Kim Novak..."

Chuck broke in. "True, but all he, I, did was try to turn Judy Barton into Madeline Elster. Made her buy new clothes, bleach her hair…"

"Well, Scottie, that ain't happening here, this red is real and permanent, until age claims it, assuming I live that long. However much that kiss of yours has stirred me, I'm not going to go all _Vertigo_. But I wonder…"

Carina put her coffee down on the coffee table and took Chuck's from him, putting it beside hers. She put one arm around his neck, positioning her other hand behind his head and pulling him firmly to her.

She kissed him. She tasted like good coffee, warm, sweetened, creamy, enfleshed. Her tongue was insistent against his lips and he opened them more.

It had been over five years since he had been with anyone. There had been some furtive touching on a couple of first-and-last dates, but nothing more. He sometimes joked to himself - never to anyone else, of course - that being a professional nerd evidently involved a vow of perpetual chastity. _As long as Irene Demova doesn't count. _

And now this beautiful woman was in his arms, so ravishingly alive, her tongue massaging his, her warm, hard-and-soft body pressed against him in open invitation, indeed in welcome. He put his hand on her thigh, smooth to the touch, heated velvet, and started to slide his hand upward…

And stopped.

Carina groaned disappointment into his mouth and pulled back, breaking the kiss and looking at him, her eyes close to his. "I thought as much. _Sarah_. You're somebody else's parking lot - if you know what I mean. I wanted to be sure." Disappointed shrug, then challenging smile. "Besides, it is obvious we would be good together, Scottie. I hope you don't mind too much." She managed to turn the smile into an apologetic smirk.

"No, um...no…" Chuck finally managed to say, his head clearing, his pulse reapportioning itself in his body. "But you're wrong, Walker and I...we aren't...Well, believe me, we just _aren't._"

Carina's frowny smile returned. "Believe what you want, Scottie. But you've found Madeline Elster...and I can't be Judy Barton, much less Midge Wood, poor lovesick, hopeless Midge.

"You're a lot more than cute-ish, Scottie, and I like you; I respond to you; you rev my engine. And while I have gotten perverse joy a couple of times by taking what Sarah wanted, I never took anything..._anyone_...who wanted her in return the way you do. The way others should want her…" Carina's frowny smile became all deep frown.

"I assume you mean Agent Larkin?"

Carina whistled low. "Shit, Scottie, what don't you know? It's like you're a lanky deity, omniscient. Is Sarah _still _with Larkin?"

Chuck pursed his lips, unsure of how to word the answer. "No, she's not. But not because of me, no. Because Bryce is...dead. They stopped being partners before that, though."

Carina's eyes widened, but only a little. "Bryce, dead? Huh. Well, that's how this goes. You're in the game, and then they knock your piece off the board. But you say they were apart before that?"

Chuck nodded. "That's what I...understand."

Carina shook her head gently, unaware of her gesture. "I used to tease Blondie about Bryce being _her type_," Carina cut her eyes at Chuck when she felt him tense at that, "but she thought I meant it about Bryce's _looks_. I didn't.

"I meant that Sarah can fall only for someone she believes is a hero. She was wrong about Bryce, though. I knew that - _don't ask_ \- but she bristled whenever I tried to tell her. And, believe me, Blondie in full bristle is no fun, no fun. At. All."

Chuck smiled at that, the thought amusing and hurting him all at once. "I can imagine. But, really, you are wrong. I don't have feelings for Agent Walker…"

"You understand, don't you, Scottie, that other people are often better judges of such things than you are?"

"Yes, I do understand that. But...I...well, I'm no hero. And I can't have feelings for her. I can't. I just..._can't."_

"Can't? Why, Scottie?"

Chuck threw caution to the wind. He was miserable, so much more miserable than he should be, than he wanted to be. His misery spoke itself. "Because earlier today, she tried to kill me. She shot at me but she missed."

Carina whistled low again. "Wow. So it's a two-way street."

Chuck did not understand. "Huh?"

"She must feel something for you too, Scottie."

"What? How could you know that?"

"Because she missed. _Walker does not miss_. But Sarah...Sarah might if she had a good reason," Carina said, regarding Chuck as if he might be a good reason.

* * *

Sitting miserable in a dingy hotel room, Sarah considered her life. Her anger had cooled. It might flare up again, she knew, but for now, she was able to see in colors other than red...or green.

It had helped considerably that Brown had sent her the full video from King Street Station. Chuck had kissed Carina. And she had kissed him back, _damn it,_ but the video showed that Chuck did it to save Carina.

The man she had been talking to was Winston Smithers, a notorious drug kingpin. The two men who had been sneaking up on Carina as Chuck arrived had been tentatively identified as Fulcrum agents.

Fulcrum again. _What is going on, Chuck? You are not Fulcrum, but keep this up and you will become their number one target. _Sarah felt like she was spinning, turning out of control. Her emotions, normally so dormant or at least so distant, were spiraling madly, a whole welter of them, a rotary, spiraling her as they did.

Fulcrum was out there; Sarah did not know where. (Although Chuck somehow seemed to.) Casey was out there; Sarah did not know where. Likely, Chuck was out there, out there _with Carina_; Sarah did not know where - or what they might be doing. (But she knew _Carina_, and that made her see only red and then only green again.)

It was stupid, feeling like this. She could not explain it to herself. It started with his photo and file and it grew. Something about him from the beginning, and then something about how he looked and how he looked at her, his room, his scent. She was a grown woman acting like...a fangirl, like a teenager with a crush on a distant heartthrob. But Sarah felt like a woman, like a woman who had found...her other half, her better half.

_God, that's all you can manage, Sarah? Reversed clichés? _But sometimes, in the right context, the cliché or the plain phrase, can be profound, even heart-stopping. It can change the way you feel about yourself. "_By the way, you are very pretty." Of course, he wrote that before the terminal, before the shot. He's changed his mind by now._

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut but tears fell from them anyway. She was frustrated and angry and so disappointed. And jealous. _Just admit it, Sarah, no one here but you. Of course. _So jealous. With the exception of two brief times in her adult life, once on a specially composed team of spies, all women (including Carina), and for a short while with Bryce, she had been alone. Maybe that was it: from the time she had seen Chuck's photo, forward through first seeing him and then chasing him, meeting his sister, looking at his phone, receiving his note and then his text, _Sarah had not felt alone_. Since Chuck's photo, she had felt less alone, even though they had yet to exchange words face-to-face, than any time she could remember, even the time with the team, the CATs, and certainly during her time with Bryce: mostly alone with her team; certainly alone with her partner.

Alone.

After Bryce, she had taken her loneliness to be inescapable, her punishment, meet and just, for the life she had lived. But then she went to Budapest, and then she volunteered at the daycare, and she began to suspect that her life might not be sentenced to loneliness, as she had taken it to be, that there might be room in it, and in the heart Sarah now knew she had, for...someone.

It was as if she had found her long-hidden heart, and dusted it and cleaned it, prepared it, on the intuition that someone was coming. Then: _Chuck_. Even as confused about him as she was, circumstantially, she was not confused existentially: she wanted and needed him. She did not know how she knew that, but she did. _It makes no sense. It makes more sense than anything in my life. _

Life was not logic: not everything that happened was the strict logical consequence of some prior happening.

_Some things just happen._

Sarah wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

How could she find Chuck - and Carina? Sarah had tried Carina's burner number, the one Sarah normally used to contact Carina, but there was no answer. She would not be able to sleep knowing, suspecting, they were out there together, and suspecting, knowing what Carina would want to do, given what Chuck had done. She watched the video again on her phone, fast-forwarding through that wretched kiss, and watching the two of them leave the station. Where had they gone?

Wait, _how_ had they gone? Chuck had apparently entered the station knowing what he would find, so he must have had a plan to escape.

_The taxi._ He used the same one he came in. He wasn't carrying his bags, as he had been even when he ran from her. Sarah, mired in her reaction to the photo, had not thought of it. Neither had Brown, himself reacting to the photo and never told about the baggage. _The taxi_. It was worth a try. She called Brown. He answered. She wondered if he ever left the office.

Brown went to work trying to find the taxi and the address to which it took its fare when leaving King Street Station. Sarah left the cheerless hotel room and got in her car.

She was going to find them; she just hoped she wasn't too late - in so many ways. She took a minute and closed her eyes, trying to slow her spiraling enough to drive. She needed to drive, just drive. She could not sit in misery.

* * *

"I take it Sarah is chasing you because of your...information?"

Chuck nodded, his face sullen.

"But if she is chasing you then you must have..._stolen_...the information?" Carina searched his face. He could feel her tense, tighten.

"No," Chuck shook his head, "I didn't steal it. Believe it or not, I have it entirely by accident."

She relaxed, evidently satisfied. "So can't you just give it back, explain, try to get out of this..._whatever_...you are in?"

"Believe me, I would be happy to give it back, but I can't. And, anyway, I've looked at some of the information, obviously. I'm not sure they'd forgive that, even if I could give it back."

"They?"

"The government. _Them_."

"Oh, them. Graham?"

Chuck nodded, "Yes, he's one of them - and he's Sarah's boss."

Carina inhaled slowly. "Sarah and Graham. There's a story there I would like to understand. Evil Geppetto, puppet master, and beautiful Pinnochia, his wooden girl." Carina looked vexed for a moment. I've never been able to get her to tell me about how or why she joined the Company - or when. I take it you understand the spy that Sarah is, her particular...skill set?"

"I do. Wetwork. Terminations." Chuck's tone went from sullen to gloomy. Carina kept watch on his face.

"Yes, _that_. I don't mean she never did more...ordinary? If that's the word...spy stuff, but that was...that was what Graham specially used her for. It never made any sense to me, the whole set-up, her doing that work. It never fit, you know? Normally, the things people are good at and the kinds of people they are, they _fit_ together - doctors are doctors everywhere, their handwriting shows it, illegible even when not at work."

Chuck laughed softly and Carina waited for an explanation for the laugh, but he motioned for her to go on. "Sarah didn't seem to be an...assassin everywhere. I mean she has her issues, God knows. But I don't know. " Carina shrugged in exasperation. "Even though we are friends, I can't tell you much about her. And maybe I shouldn't, given that you two seem to be on opposite sides of...something."

Chuck did not respond to that.

Carina stood up. "I guess I need to call _my _boss and tell her that months of work have gone circling down the drain."

Chuck reached out and took her hand. "Carina, thanks for trusting me. Look, I can't explain how I know, but you don't have to scrap your mission. You can still take Smithers down. You see...and again, _don't ask me to explain_...what you don't know is that Smithers started working for Fulcrum…"

Carina made a face at the word, obviously unfamiliar. "Fulcrum?"

Chuck tugged gently on her hand and she sat back down. "Here's how you do it…"

* * *

Casey had gone over the events at the Greyhound terminal a second time for Beckman. He was sitting in a corner booth at IHOP, no one near him, his only company a cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes. And Beckman, on the phone. Casey was chewing, thinking, and only half listening to Beckman vent.

She had stared him down. Not Beckman. Walker. She had stared him into standing down. He had seen her once or twice before, but in the halls, not on a mission, in the field. He now knew that 'Ice Queen' was not a joke - _so_ not a joke. But that was the problem. He knew she was good already; he just had not been ready for _her_. Or her...investment...in the kid. What was that about? Walker could make that shot - even in the rain - ten times out of ten. Casey knew he could. She had not tried to kill Bartowski. She tried to keep Casey from killing the kid.

Casey made a face, gulped down his bite and pushed his pancakes a distance away. _Full, all of a sudden_.

She was trying to keep Bartowski _alive. _

_Why? And what is Bartowski _doing_? Bartowski runs in mysterious ways..._

"So, Graham's pet Fury has finally stepped over the line, is that what you are telling me, Major?" Casey refocused on Beckman, the malevolent glee in her tone. "I always knew the woman must be crazy, deep down. She had to break sooner or later. Can't believe she lasted this long. Anyway, you say she shot at you and Bartowski got away in the aftermath?"

Casey grunted affirmatively. _Not strictly true, but close enough for government work. _"Well, then, Major, you now have my authorization: kill Bartowski _and kill Walker_. Hunt them both. I don't know what she's playing at, but I need her _off_ the board too."

Casey pushed his pancakes even further away. Looking at them was making him queasy, a little dizzy. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Chuck finished talking with Carina. They had formulated a plan for her, one that minimized any risk and that incorporated information Carina had known nothing about.

It pissed Chuck off. The NSA had known about Smithers and Fulcrum but had shared the information with no one else, even though they also knew that Agent Miller was in deep cover. They had been using her too, unawares, hoping she would provoke Smithers into a mistake that would not only condemn him but reveal more about Fulcrum, particularly its leadership, a question so far shrouded in darkness. Chuck did not know that answer - or not yet, but patterns, sub-patterns, patterns within a larger pattern, were becoming clear or clearer to him.

It had pissed Carina off too, finding out that the NSA was using her, treating her as expendable. Chuck had rarely heard the darker recesses of English put to more inflammatory use. His ears burnt. She had gone to her room to make some calls and left Chuck sitting in the living room. He turned off the music and gave himself to mulling over the day's events.

He replayed the scene at the Greyhound terminal, trying out Carina's interpretation of the crucial event, the shot. She could have missed him on purpose. But if so, why fire at all? Take all the risks that a shot, even a silenced one, required? If she did not want to shoot him, why shoot at all?

He suddenly realized that he had spent little time thinking about all this from her perspective. He had taken himself to understand her point of view. Maybe he did not understand it. After all, she lacked a crucial piece of information. He had the Intersect, or, maybe better, he was the Intersect. He had known she did not know that, but he had not focused on it. What could she have made of his reaction to her at the Buy More? It was not expected. What could she have made of what happened at the Center? With Carina? (If she knew about it; she probably knew about it.) It had not occurred to Chuck that what he was doing, running about, must have seemed bizarre, inexplicable, wizardry.

He returned to the shot. Assuming Carina was right, for argument's sake, and assuming that it would have made better sense not to shoot than to shoot, then there must have been some reason for Sarah to shoot, other than shooting Chuck. What would it have been? She had almost hit that big guy, the stranger. Could that have been the point, keeping the stranger at bay, allowing Chuck to escape, not just her, but him?

Carina came into the room just then, a phone in each hand. Chuck ignored the two-fisted telephony and looked up at her face. "Carina, earlier today I saw a guy...a man...big, heavy chest and shoulders and arms, close-cropped hair. Ex-military, Something about the way he walked. I saw him at the same time I saw Sarah, just at the moment she shot…"

"John Casey?"

Chuck's eyes rolled and he fell off the couch, the world spinning around him.

* * *

Carina took off her robe. She looked at herself in the bedroom mirror, the red lace underwear. _What a waste of good lingerie, Scottie. _Taking off the lingerie, she put on some soft pajamas. She climbed into bed, rolled over a couple of times. Blew out a frustrated breath. That kiss, those kisses, had affected her. She wasn't sure she was going to find it easy to get to sleep - she might have to take matters into her own hands.

It was too bad Scottie had basically run from the apartment - but maybe it was good too since Carina was not sure she could have kept herself from revealing the lingerie and trying again. She sighed. Men like Scottie - whatever his name was - were no part of her world, her life. Men like Bryce Larkin were, men like John Casey. Not that the two men were the same. But they were alike in that they were incapable of commitment.

Not that Carina thought she was capable of it. She had never tried it, never thought about it. But it crossed her mind as she gazed at the ceiling. She might hate it, might run from it. The thought of real intimacy with a man made her feel slightly seasick. She was happy enough to share her naked body - but not her nakedness, real nakedness. In that sense, she had never undressed for any man, not one of the many she had shed her clothes for.

_But Scottie, oh, well. Better not to think about it. _She closed her eyes and drifted off.

* * *

Sarah picked the lock without making a sound.

She slipped inside and took out her pistol, already with the silencer in place. She crept through the living room and into the hall, to the bedroom door. She pushed the door the rest of the way open; it was not shut. She stepped over the robe on the floor.

Clenching her teeth, she put the end of the silencer against the forehead below red hair. Blue eyes opened. "Hey, Madeline. Figured you'd find me. But Scottie's already gone."

"Huh?"

Carina looked up at the gun against her forehead, her blue eyes crossing a little as she did. "He's not here, Sarah. Not in my bed, not in my apartment. So, either brain me or put that thing away."

Sarah put the gun away, hoping that Carina did not see the mix of relief and disappointment Sarah knew showed on her face. Carina pushed herself up into a seated position, fluffing her pillows behind her. She patted the bed and Sarah sat down beside her.

Sarah noticed that a matching red lace bra and panties were on the floor, near the robe. She had not seen them when she came in. She stared at them for a minute, then turned slowly to Carina. Carina met her gaze and held it. "No, that's the answer to the question you won't ask, Blondie. No. Not that I didn't try. But before you get too pissed, I will say in my defense that the robe never came off; the lingerie never came out to play - though I would have been happy for it, and other things, to have been exposed.

"What were you planning to do with that gun, Sarah. Shoot us both?"

Sarah looked at Carina, trying not to react any more than she already had. Carina said nothing more. So they sat there like that, listening to a clock ticking in the apartment.

"So, this is your place?"

"Yeah, the one my mark knows nothing about. We came here after your...target rescued me." Tick-tock, tick-tock.

"Did you decorate it?"

"Yeah, it was something to do when I first got here. Furniture's all rental, though."

"Mmmhmm." Tick-tock, tick-tock.

"Hell, Sarah, say something. What is going on? That grey-suited guy saves my life then tells me you tried to kill him."

"I knew he believed that," Sarah said, giving up on hiding her dejection.

"Well, Sarah, I corrected him on that. I know you, I've seen you in action. I told him if you missed it was because you chose to miss. He might have believed me. Anyway, he listened to me when I told him."

Sarah perked up. "Really? He listened?"

"Yes, and what's more, he...turned me down _before _I corrected him. He turned me down because of you, Sarah Walker. I don't know how, but you seem to have gotten under his skin. Like Madeline Elster got under Scottie Ferguson's skin in _Vertigo. _Deep under."

Sarah nodded but did not get the reference. She had heard of the movie but never seen it. Still, Chuck had _listened_. That was something. And Sarah understood the point Carina was making, even if not the device she was using to make it.

Sarah felt like she could breathe again. She took a slow, full breath. "Where's he now, Carina?"

"What's his _name_, Sarah?"

Sarah pondered for a moment and then answered. "Chuck. His name's Chuck. And no, I wasn't going to shoot you both, or either of you. But I had to be prepared for him to run again, to have a way to make him stop, even if I had to do it at gunpoint."

Carina ignored the last part. "'Chuck'. Huh. Not that far from 'Scottie'." She smiled. "Say, does Scot-, does Chuck have a problem with...seizures?"

Sarah looked at Carina. "No, not that I know of. No history of anything like that in the file on him, or in any other...material...I've seen."

A question formed in Carina's eyes but she did not ask it. She went on. "Well, he asked me about a guy, a big guy, short hair, ex-military, there when you apparently shot at Chuck. I guessed it was John Casey. I had no more than said the name when Chuck had a seizure. I don't know...that's what I would call it. In a few seconds it passed, and after it, he seemed in pain, distracted. Mumbling to himself, or somebody. He grabbed his stuff - he hugged me, actually hugged me, _buddies_ \- and he left. What was that about, Sarah?"

"I have no idea, Carina."

* * *

A/N: After the headlong pace of the last two chapters, a talky, breathy, spinning chapter. Busy week. I hope to make my Friday post, but it may be a day or two late. Hang with me!

Thanks for the reviews! I'm having fun; it seems you folks are too.

Chapter themes: Somebody Else's Parking Lot in Sebastopol, Malevolent Seascape Y, _The Extra Glenns_.


	11. Chapter 9: Blue Period

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_Happy Friday Post! _ (Thursday, I know, but _maybe_ you will get another in the not too distant future?) A slightly shorter chapter but (warning!) _dense_. A lot of little things that matter.

* * *

"_I have to say again, nice suit. Although it is disconcerting to see Scottie Ferguson in Roger Thornhill's clothes."_

"_Are you some newfangled Renaissance-Man Indie-Hipster Super-Spy?"_

"_Walker does not miss. But Sarah...Sarah might, if she had a good reason"_

"_Bartowski runs in mysterious ways..."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

**Blue Period**

* * *

Thursday Night/Friday Morning

* * *

_A seizure? Was Chuck sick? Had he hurt himself? _

An image of Chuck's face at the Buy More, the change that came over him after Chuck first looked at her, washed into her mind. That moment, that change, had gotten lost, hidden, between the look that preceded it - a memory Sarah cherished - and the look subsequent to it - a memory Sarah would rather forget if she could.

But in between, Chuck's eyes had rolled, his face distorted. Sarah had seen what Carina was describing, but she had never isolated it enough in thought to name it or to wonder about its name. It had been lost between its precedents and consequents. _A seizure?_ Sarah wasn't sure. What happened to him there in the Buy More, here in Carina's apartment? _Something...but what? _

"What is it Sarah, now _you_ look sick?" Carina got up out of bed and walked into the living room, Sarah following, Carina looking back at her as they moved.

"I have seen what you described, Carina. I...just hadn't really noticed, or I thought it was...about me. I don't know if it's a seizure, but I understand why you called it that."

* * *

Carina sat down and waited but Sarah offered no explanation. Sighing, Carina picked up one of the two phones sitting on her coffee table. She put them there after Chuck left, right after he hugged her. Carina waved the phone at Sarah.

"I saw you called today - and a few weeks ago - but I hadn't been back here to check the phone in a while. I had to charge it up when Chuck and I got here. Then, I decided it would be unsporting of me to call you while he was here, especially since you'd demand to know, and I don't like lying to you."

"I don't like lying to you either, Carina. But, 'unsporting'?"

"Scottie, I mean _Chuck_, saved my life, Sarah. I'm not sure I would be here if he hadn't shown up. And - bonus, big bonus - to do it, he kissed me as well as anyone has ever kissed me."

Carina watched Sarah's face closely. There was a flash of flame in Sarah's eyes, a narrowing of her lips, a clenching of one hand. Sarah was not neutral about that kiss, even though she tried to be. _I knew it. _

"Is he really the target of a termination order, Sarah? Because if he is, God help you. It would be hard to kill that man, particularly if you've fallen for him."

Sarah sputtered. "What? Fallen? No, no, I haven't fallen for Chuck, for my target. And, no, technically, although I have permission to terminate, I haven't been given an order to do so. I'd like to take him alive, not dead."

"I bet you would - like to _take him alive_," Carina deadpanned. "More than once, I bet, more than twice, even."

Sarah's blush was involuntary and she tried to hide it by looking away, but Carina knew a direct hit when she saw one. Sarah pretended to consider a painting on the wall.

"Look, Blondie, you're in a fix. If you won't tell me what this is about, I can't really help. In part, because I am still in the dark, but in part, because my loyalties are divided…"

Sarah whipped her head around, spearing Carina with her shocked blue eyes. "Divided between me and Chuck? I thought you were _my_ friend."

"I am. No, divided between Sarah and Agent Walker. I am pretty sure I am on Team Sarah, if she will just, just once, talk to me," Carina implored.

* * *

Asleep, in dreams - Chuck.

Sticky with sweat, twisting side-to-side. REM. REM. REM.

Closed eyes rolling left, right, left, right.

Burning. Unpeaceful. Strange dreams and stranger.

He dreamt patterns again, patterns, always patterns, patterns inside of patterns, pattern atop patterns, chasing some elusive gestalt, some meaning, a whole superceding the sum of its parts. Urgent. Urgent. _Danger, Chuck Bartowski, Danger! _Blood, explosions, death: past, present, planned. Always death. Fulcrum, foreign governments, the US government, doubles, always doubles, double-barrels, double-agents, double-meaning, double-dealing. Doubled, everything doubled. Duplex. Duplicity. Not all what it seemed. No, almost none of it what it seemed...

The Buy More...

...His dreamscape shifted, its landscape altered, aping the landscape Daffy Duck inhabited in _Duck Amuck. _

_Merry Melodies, Warner Bros. Familiar theme music._

"_That's all, folks!" _

Instability. Change. Scenes of Daffy transmuted into scenes of Chuck. Duck amuck, Chuck amuck.

Chuck saw himself, first against one backdrop, then another, sometimes in different costumes, clothes, moving, changing, trying to find himself...to make sense of himself and who and what and where and why he was...is...would be. Chuck, chased and chasing.

The Buy More, Mount Shasta, Seattle. Morgan, Ellie. Klodny. Sarah, Carina, Casey...

...He was standing in a church. No, not a church, a cathedral: _a basilica_. He knew it. _The Basilica La Sagrada Familia. _Unfinished. Gaudi, the architect. Barcelona, the city. No, he did not know it. _H_e did not. His _dad_ knew it. His dream, not Chuck's. Memory. He was standing...No, his dad was standing inside the Basilica...

...Dreams amuck...

...It was a gorgeous Spanish morning, the wholly transparent Mediterranean sunlight discovering everything, making it all seem lit from within. His father, Stephen, desperately unhappy, worried, sick, and lost - but cautious, walked through the Hope Door in the Nativity Façade on the east side of the Basilica, walking beneath the statues of Joseph with Jesus, together, father and son. Looking for...her, he was looking for her, always, the mother of his children, his wife.

He scanned the vast, lofty woodland stone interior of the Basilica, the roof depending on vaulting columns designed as trees - and he found her: _Mary_. Chuck's mom. Stephen thought for a moment of the other Mary, statued on the Façade outside. Not his Mary.

This Mary, the one inside, Stephen's wife, Chuck's mom, was roughly the age she had been when she left them all. _Abandoned us all_. Maybe slightly older. She was still everything he - everything Stephen - hoped for, dreamt of, wanted. He yearned for her with an ulcerated heart, raw and sore past bearing.

He was a holocaust of anger, resentment, desire, love, need - all of it targeting the small, but powerful and beautiful woman standing there, empty-handed, looking back at him with her own so-complicated gaze. Her face, despite its frown, was soft, remorseful - yet wary.

She was suffused in blue light, standing in it, bathed in blue, blue on blue, the morning sun filtering through the blue stained-glass windows of the Nativity Façade. She was a painting from Picasso's blue period, stunning and sad. She spoke first, her voice strained, cracking.

"Hello, Stephen; here I am. The chase has ended. You've found me at last."

Emotions volcanoed through Chuck, through his dad.

_Mary, my love, my life! How I hate you!_

"Hello, Mary." His voice sounded flinty, flint striking a stone, but without spark.

_La Sagrada Familia _faded bluely...the landscapes shifted...

...and then, more blue. The blue of Walker's eyes. Terminal blue. Those eyes, the eyes that woke Chuck up, woke him up each morning. Sarah's eyes. Killing him. Those deadly eyes.

_All I ever wanted, all I ever need. You are all women to me._

Chuck woke, gasping.

He was sitting up in a bed, small but more than a cot, in a rectangular, stone-walled room.

A blanket was wrapped around him tight, strangling him, as his dreams had been - but it was also damp and itchy. Sweat. He wiped water from his face. Tears.

It took him a moment to remember how he had gotten in the room. In the bed.

* * *

_~"John Casey! My God, they've pulled out all the stops. The address, Chuck, the one I gave you. You've got to run…_

_~"Carina Miller! She's Walker's best friend; she will sell you out, Chuck. Why does she have two phones? She called Walker, Chuck. The Ice Queen is coming! Run! John Casey, NSA marksman, spy, assassin. Run!"~_

_Panic flared in Chuck but he fought it back. His dad could scream, if he wanted; Carina had been kind to Chuck. He did not know why she had two phones, but Chuck was not going to assume it was part of some plot against him. Still, it was hard to resist the thought, to distinguish his dad's voice from his own internal voice, hard to fight back against a voice in his own head, screaming at him. And along with the internal screaming came blinding pain, the after-effects of the flash. The Governor might limit how long the pain continued, but it could not lessen its initial force. This Casey flash had been the worst yet, except for the flash on Chuck's mom. _

_The big man at the terminal was John Casey. Carina had guessed right. And although his file was different than Walker's, they were similar in important respects. Photos and reports of violence, terminations. There were also the black ops Casey had run; the questionable military actions he had participated in. His real name: Alex Coburn. It was too much to process. Rending Chuck's consciousness. The NSA's answer to Walker chasing him too. Death doubled. Everything double. Duplicity._

_~"Run, Chuck! Goddamnit, stop standing!"~_

"_Shut up, Dad," Chuck said aloud but softly. "You're wrong about Carina."_

_~"The hell I am. Ask her about that second phone. Ask her whose number is on it. The answer is Sarah Walker's."~_

"_I wonder if you are wrong about her too, Dad. I'm not so sure…" _

_~"Never trust one of these women, Chuck. Never. Spies are all bad, but female spies are worst of all. Gifted natural liars with special training. Every second you stand here, Walker gets closer, Chuck. Closer. I had her chase me for months. She won't quit. She's gifted. A heartless, remorseless machine-bitch. She will find you unless you listen to me. I know her type: I know how she works; I know how she thinks. I know. She's coming, Chuck."~_

_The panic was too much. Chuck could not think straight - his head echoed with his dad's voice, pinging madly from side-to-side of his cranium, an echo chamber for an alien voice. He grabbed Carina and hugged her. Words escaped him. He couldn't speak. He picked up his baggage and he left, saying nothing, not looking back. _

_Outside, panic continuing to grow, he found a seat on a passing bus and sat there, arguing internally with his dad. _

_~"Are you happy, now?"~_

_~"No, and I won't be until we get to the address. Follow the signs!"~_

_~"The signs?"~_

_~"You'll know what I mean. _

_~"Listen, son. The Intersect changes you...it grows into you and you grow into it. You are changing. Some of the changes are really yours, changes that you should have made, would have made but were kept from making, some are changes that...belong to the Intersect...that are not yours. _

_The only way to tell them apart from the inside is to use your heart, Chuck, that good heart you have always had. Pit your heart against your head. But listen to me. Get to the address. Hole up. Let them drive themselves crazy trying to find you. Get off this bus and then…"_

_Chuck listened to his dad's instructions, holding his head in his hands, his baggage in his lap, rocking. He knew people were watching him. Those nearest to him had moved away, glancing back at him nervously. _

_He was running again. It felt natural. It felt unnatural. He was beginning to lose his grip on who he was: the professional nerd in black Chucks, or the quasi-spy in grey flannel? Chuck Bartowski did not stunt-drive Nerd Herders, defuse bombs, bolt for his life in Greyhound terminals, kiss beautiful strangers. He fixed computers. He moped about Jill. He talked pointlessly with Morgan about the best sandwiches for desert islands. He did not interact with haunting blonde personal assassins. _

_His life was spinning out of control. And yet he felt more in control than he had for five years. _

_Fuck, Chuck, figure it out! _

_What the hell is going on? What did Bryce do to you? What did your dad do to you? What are you doing to yourself? Somebody help me!_

_He got off the bus and got on another, this time choosing it carefully. He found a seat and pressed his head against the cold window, hoping for some relief from the vice-grip misery that would not release him, the heat and headache. His father's voice was gone. As had been true for most of Chuck's life, his dad had told Chuck something that made no sense then disappeared. _"You're special, Chuck." -Thanks for nothing, Dad_._

_Chuck got off the bus and found a taxi. He took it a few blocks, then got out and took another. He changed five times before he finally got to where he was going, and he still had to walk several blocks to get there. It was a warehouse district on the edge of the city, once promising, now bleak and rundown and hopeless. A materialization of Chuck's life since Stanford. _

_Chuck counted seven buildings from one corner. At the seventh, he turned and walked down the narrow street, almost an alley, that ran between it and the sixth. He came to a heavy, rusty metal door. On the door in several places, atop older graffiti, were aces of spades. _

_Chuck grabbed the handle and held it for several seconds. Tumblers turned and Chuck was able to open the door. He walked inside and a light, one naked bulb high up in the rafters, flickered on. In its weak glow, Chuck found another door marked with multiple aces of spades. He repeated the procedure with its handle and opened the door. _

_Inside was a room, stone-walled and rectangular. On one end was a bed, made neatly. Beside it was a nightstand, with a metal box closed on top of it. On the other end, on the wall, was a bank of computer monitors, and below them, on a long steel desk, was a keyboard. _

_Between them, on the wall opposite the door, was shelving. On it was a hoard of canned food, bottled water, sodas, various kinds of pre-packaged food. On one end of a middle shelf were weapons: knives, pistols, ammunition and a burner phone, plugged into a charger. _

_A refrigerator stood a the end of the shelving and microwave rested atop it. There was a closet-like bathroom. It was a spy version of a fallout shelter. Cheerless and utilitarian. Better than a coffin but not by a large margin. _

_Chuck's dad evidently had a series of such place in various cities around the country, more compact versions of the Tarzana basement. _

_Chuck dropped his things on the bed and walked to the metal box. He dad had told him there were pills there that would help with the headaches, since they would likely keep getting worse in intensity, and, despite the Governor, would increase in duration. _

_He rifled through the box, finding lots of junk, a prescription bottle of pills, and a handful of Tootsie Rolls. Chuck opened one and popped it in his mouth. He did not remember liking them as much as he now did. He ate a second, then he shook one of the horse-sized pills from the bottle, grabbed some water, and forced the pill down as a Tootsie Roll chaser. The combined flavors were not pleasant. He drank some more water, then his exhaustion caught up with him. He had barely slept in days. The nap before he defused the bomb was the sole restful sleep he had since Sarah visited the Buy More. _

_He climbed onto the bed and rested on his back. He was still not sure what his dad was telling him, or why he kept explaining it in such oracular terms. _

_Instead of thinking about that, though, he thought about Sarah...about Walker. Had she meant to kill him or save him? How could he know? Did Carina know Sarah well enough to be so sure? Why had Sarah called out his name instead of shooting a second time? Why had he liked the sound of her saying his name so much? He hadn't processed it at the time, but he now knew he did. He kept hearing her say it. _

_All at once, the pain killer kicked in. Chuck melted like an ice cube on a stove-top burner. But he did not sleep, not immediately. Blue and lonely, he got up and walked, swaying, woozy, to the burner phone. He picked it up and called himself. Called his own phone. Called her. I__t rang a couple of times and then he heard her say his name again._

"_Chuck?"_

_His words thick and stewy, Chuck responded. "Agent Walker, this is Chuck Bartowski. Please don't kill me. I need you...I mean, I need your help. I'm no good alone."_

"_Chuck, where are you? I will help you. I was trying to help you today."_

"_That's what Carina told me. You won't kill me? Really?"_

"_Really, Chuck, I won't kill you. You're...hard to kill, Chuck."_

"_Do you think, since you aren't going to kill me, you might kiss me? I kissed somebody today, twice, but she wasn't you either time."_

"_I know, Chuck...It's...it's okay."_

"_That's good. So you won't kill me but you will kiss me? That's very good. Nighty-night, Sarah..."_

"_No, Chuck. Don't hang up! And I didn't say I would kiss you, only that I wouldn't kill you."_

"_Means the same. Thanks, Sarah. God, my head hurts." _

_He ended the call and crawled groggily back into bed. _

* * *

Sarah held the phone to her ear but the line was dead.

She was still seated in Carina's living room. The phone call had interrupted them just as Sarah was about to tell Carina about Chuck. The look on Carina's face as she listened to Sarah's end of the conversation made it clear to Sarah that she did not need to say anything.

"He wants you to kiss him?" Carina's tone was merry, but there was a tincture of jealousy in it.

Sarah nodded, reddening while frowning. "Um, yes, but he sounded...drunk or drugged or..._sick_. In pain. He said his head hurt. Tell me everything you can, Carina. From the moment...from the moment he kissed you."

* * *

Graham rested his elbow on his desk, his forehead in his palm.

He should have never let himself get pulled into the maze of the Intersect. It was all madness. A bad idea. He should have known better. Orion was a technological snake oil salesman.

But Orion was dead. Soon his son would be. It would probably be best if his daughter were too. Wipe the whole accursed family off the planet for good.

Drain the gene pool. Finish the Intersect once and for all.

Graham called up a list of agents. Time to find someone nearby to terminate the good doctor. _Bye-bye Bartowskis, and good riddance_.

* * *

Beckman rubbed her temples.

She should never have been in this position. She was old enough, more than old enough, to know better.

She was supposed to be a woman of self-control. She had been, once. Now she knew she was just an aging fool, clutching at illusions, trappings of youth, as much a dupe as any mark from her own days in the field.

She had been compromised and blackmailed. Forced to pretend to fight Fulcrum while actually aiding Fulcrum. But if Casey could do the job, terminate Bartowski and Walker both, maybe this would all finally end, the threat to Beckman be finally finished. She would be free - she could retire, at least try to put her personal life back together.

Orion was dead.

Larkin was dead. Too bad.

But it was a start. More than a start.

Beckman was close to finishing this.

* * *

Sarah listened carefully as Carina finished her story, trying to ignore her jealousy about the second kiss but also secretly thrilled by Chuck's refusal of Carina. Sarah did not know of any man who had gotten into Carina's embrace who escaped from it.

_Carina thinks he did it because he feels something for me. How could he? He knows who I am, what I am. He thought I tried to kill him_. _How can he see the woman, not the monster?_ _He wants me to kiss him._

"So he told you that, that he has...the information...but can't return it? He told me something like that too. Do you have any idea what he meant?"

Carina shrugged. "No, but he not only saved me, as I said, he told me that the NSA was using me. And he told me how to trap Smithers. It was a brilliant plan. I've already put it into motion. With any luck, I'll have Smithers and have smashed his drug organization within a few days. So, it isn't just that he has information, Sarah, he's doing things with it. Who is he, Sarah? I don't mean his name, I mean his background?"

"Well, he's not a spy, if that's what you are thinking."

"Actually, I wasn't. I know spies - he's either not one, or he's some evolutionary leap forward. What are you going to do, Sarah? Are you willing to go all the way across the line here, bite the hand that feeds you?"

Sarah did not answer. Carina grinned in the silence, apparently taking it as an answer. She spoke softly. "I always knew it would happen. At one time I dreaded it, back in our CAT days, thought I would hate it. But I don't. I'm actually a little envious."

"What did you always know would happen, Carina?"

"I knew one day Pinocchia would become a real girl."

"Pinocchia?" Sarah asked, clueless. Carina explained.

* * *

Sleep would not come. Ellie looked at Devon, gently snoring beside her. She had her hand on his stomach, and normally, when she could not sleep, just making physical contact with him calmed her - or sometimes, it led to something that afterward left her calm - but tonight Devon had not awakened and she had not drifted off.

Chuck. She had heard nothing from the police about her Missing Persons report. She got up and went to Chuck's room and sat down at his computer. She glanced over at the _North by Northwest _poster. It made her think of Eva Marie Saint. That made Ellie think of Sarah. What role if any did she have in this? That mask, why was she carrying it? Ellie had no answer to that question though she had asked it of herself over and over? Was there any plausible answer that was not terrifying?

Ellie called up her email on Chuck's computer. Nothing. Since she wanted something to do other than worry about Chuck, she decided to check her spam files. Long ago, a hospital email had gotten into spam and Ellie had ended up in hot water. Ever since she worried about it happening again, so she checked every day or two. She hadn't checked in a while because of work and worry.

She scanned the spam. Nothing of interest. _Wait. _She stared at the subject line of one: Knock, Knock, I'm Here. _Chuck. _He had sent it. She opened it and recognized her gifted brother's handiwork in the broken English. He was telling her he was okay, at least when he sent it. She felt relief permeate her. _Thank God. _

_Where are you, Chuck? What are you doing?_

Relieved and so newly focused, Ellie left her email and moved to Chuck's. She should have thought to check his email days ago; she knew he left it up and open. _Even I know better than that, and I'm not the computer whiz. _There were a few emails from Morgan, trying to establish contact and a few from Ellie herself trying to do the same. Big Mike had sent an email about the Assistant Manager's job at the Buy More.

Scrolling back, Ellie saw a name that made her heart chill. _Bryce Larkin_. Bryce Larkin sent Chuck an email on Chuck's birthday, right around the time this started. Ellie had never liked Larkin, to put it mildly, never understood why Chuck did (or why Larkin claimed to like Chuck). Yes, they both liked computers and games - but Chuck loved them for themselves. Bryce loved them for the competition, for the chance they gave him to best everyone, to win. _I guess Bryce must think he won, after screwing Chuck one way and after screwing Jill countless others. _But Chuck is the better man, always was the better man.

Larkin. Bastard. Asshole bastard.

Ellie opened the file. Empty. That made her heart's chill worse, not better. _What happened, Chuck? What did he send you? Say to you?_

Ellie had sent Chuck text after text the first few days. She had not tried to contact him that way again. They never, practically never, talked to each other on the phone. So she had only called a couple of times. But Ellie tried to call him now, not caring about the hour.

The phone rang a few times and then a voice, female, in a hopeful tone: "Chuck?"

Ellie jerked. "_Chuck?"_

The voice went still for a few seconds. "Ellie?..."

"..._Sarah?_"

* * *

Chuck could not believe he had done it.

Drugged, he called Walker...Sarah.

Asked her to kiss him. To kiss him. _What kind of pill was that, Dad?_

She said she would not kill him. Could he trust her? Was he crazy to consider it? Despite his dad's instructions, Chuck could not stay holed up in that room for long. He was already feeling a tug, northward again. There was someplace he needed to be, something he needed to do or stop.

He had figured this much out: it was the Intersect, leading him on. Even when not flashing, it was...working, humming away in his head. He was slowly finding the patterns in the vast data, sorting it into meaningful units. Slowly, Fulcrum was coming into focus. Perhaps he could stop them if he could stay sane and stay alive for long enough. What he told Sarah was true: he needed her, he needed her help.

He was going to risk it. He opened a bottle of water. At least his head was feeling better. He left the stone-walled room and walked into the larger building. It was empty, dusty, full of nothing but the blue light of the Seattle morning. Through a window, Chuck could see orange beginning to streak the blue dawn.

Friday morning was dawning. Blue light. He thought of his mom, of Frost, standing in _La Sagrada Familia_, his father walking in to meet her. He wondered what happened at that meeting.

It was time for Chuck to meet the Ice Queen.

He was going to walk through his own Hope Door.

* * *

A/N1: Closing in on the end of _Book One: Inheritance_.

Thanks much for the reviews and PMs. I have almost caught up on responses, but my teaching schedule and other duties have kept me from having tons of time and energy, so I am still a little behind.

Please keep responses coming. It helps me keep energized and helps me to know what is working. I showed up here months ago with _C v BC_ because I wanted to learn how to write fiction. That is still why I am here. Trying to get better. Drop me a line, please!

A/N2: When I started this, I knew I would write a significant part of it in Barcelona, and thought it would be fun to incorporate the city and its features, history, characters: _La Sagrada Familia_, Picasso, etc. (I did build Barcelona into a section of _MisEd _after my first visit here. Oh, and Picasso and his Blue Period are in canon, if I remember correctly - Lester calls Jeff the "Picasso of creepiness" to which Jeff responds, "Yes, and this is my Blue Period".) Anyway, a Barcelona subplot is beginning now, as other major themes of the story slowly come into view.

_Daffy Duck? Really? _Believe it or not, _Duck Amuck_ is a major influence on this story and has been since the very beginning. If you watch the cartoon, available online (if you don't know it, you should watch it - it's about seven minutes long, I think), you will begin to see how it has influenced what I am doing, and will better understand how it will continue to influence what I am doing. By the way, the director of that cartoon, the great animator, Charles Jones, is the author of a memoir I admire, called _Chuck Amuck. _So there's our title.

I'm looking forward to the next couple of chapters. How about you?

Chapter Theme: _Are You Alright?__, _Lucinda Williams

Zettel


	12. Chapter 10: For Better, For Worse

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_Hello, Stephen; here I am. The chase has ended. You've found me at last."_

"_I need you...I mean, I need your help. I'm no good alone."_

"_...I didn't say I would kiss you, only that I wouldn't kill you."_

_"I knew one day Pinocchia would become a real girl."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

**For Better, For Worse**

* * *

Friday morning, dawn-ish

* * *

LA, and another bullshit assignment.

That had been a regularity for her, since the CATs, since Walker.

It had just changed. She looked at the phone in her hand in growing excitement. Langston Graham had called her, _her, _talked to her in person, given her an assignment. It was like she, not Walker, was the Enforcer, like she, Zondra Rizzo, was Graham's new pet.

Zondra had spent a long time in the spy's version of the doghouse. Framed as a traitor, believed to be one by her best friend, Sarah Walker, Zondra had been shuttled from one inconsequential assignment to another for years. The fact that she passed the lie detector test kept her from facing the full, official consequences of the frame-job, but it also kept her from being fully trusted in the Company. She lived on the margins among people who themselves lived on the margins. Marginal to the marginal.

So she had lived for years on the move, trailing low-level operatives, infiltrating the criminal equivalents of _Our Gang_, A spy-version of a Crossing Guard, she had been busy but she had been reduced to insignificance. She had made it clear to her superiors, hoping that word would eventually bubble up to Graham himself, that she had done her time, and that she was ready for more, even termination assignments. She had the training and the skill set, even if she had not been formally Red Tested. She was now about to be formally tested, Red Tested. If this went well, maybe Zondra could start nipping at Walker's heels, show her that she was not the only one cut out to be an Enforcer.

She had not seen Walker for years; they had each avoided the other. But it looked like Zondra's number had finally been called. Once she did this, she would be out of the doghouse, and into the penthouse, Company-wise. Maybe then she would look Sarah up and they would have a conversation - yes, call it a conversation - that was years overdue.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Graham. She looked. A beautiful brunette smiled in the photo. _Eleanor Bartowski. Information and formal orders to follow on secure email. _

Not exactly a photo of someone who looked like a hardened spy or criminal. But Zondra's was not to reason why this Eleanor was a target. She was just supposed to kill her. And she would. She dropped her phone in her purse and started for her hotel room, to get her computer. Time to start planning. This had to go right. Professional redemption at last, and like most redemption, its cost would be blood. Red Test. Redemption. Eleanor Bartowski. The cost.

* * *

Casey looked up and down the fancy hallway. Its heavy carpet and ornate light-fixtures were, at the moment, seen only by him. He had his lock-picking tools in his pocket and took them out. He quickly had the door open, and he hurriedly entered and closed the door.

Immediately, he was struck by the scent in the suite, faint but noticeable. It made him think of her, her long legs, her smirking blue eyes, her red hair, her perfume. Carina Miller. He pictured her for a moment, against his will, naked in a bed in Prague, her arms outstretched to him. He shut his eyes. No reason to revisit Prague, Carina. No more reason than there was to revisit...other places, other women. Shattered cameras in bomb blasts. Shattering news delivered to a young woman about her (supposedly) dead future husband…

No, no reason.

Casey was not about the past, not about whys or about tomorrows.

"_Head up, eyes on the objective. Stay in the now. That's where you live or die, soldier! You never die tomorrow. You die today unless you live today. Stay in the now! You have no past. You have never known anyone except the men around you right now. Head up, eyes on the objective."_

Casey was not sure how his NSA analysts had the address and mission information of a DEA Agent - how they knew she was in town at all, much less her cover address, cover name, cover job. He did not stop to worry the thought. On the books, the room's occupant was not Carina Miller, DEA, but Karen Mahler, assistant fashion editor of rising Seattle cultural rag, _Emerald City Colors_.

Casey had been by her office and the receptionist simply said she was not there and was not expected in today. Casey had called the hotel and had them ring her room a couple of times, once before he started the short journey from _Colors_ office to the swanky hotel, then again before he went inside. He had them do it once more from the front desk. So, Casey was reasonably sure Carina was not there. It was possible she was there - doing what she did best, and Lord she was good at it - and just not answering the phone, but Casey thought, he hoped, that was not the explanation.

The suite was what he expected, given Carina, given her current cover, given their...history. Fancy. Luxurious. Every color, every surface an invitation. Casey shook himself, trying to break the effect, the lingering effect of her perfume, of the memory of her bare, perfumed skin. His stomach was hurting. It had been hurting for the last couple of days, really since Mount Shasta, though he had not paid any attention to it there. He had been having stomach troubles on missions occasionally for the last few months. Maybe when all this was over, he would see the NSA docs and figure out what was going on. His diet - pancakes his staff of life, _the stack of life?_ \- was probably to blame.

He needed to remember he was not here for Miller, or about Miller, really. He was here because he was hoping Miller would lead him to Walker and thus to the kid...Bartowski. Casey started carefully rummaging through the suite, Karen Mahler's things. He worked with practiced confidence, thoroughness. He found nothing to help him - and a few things, like the drawer full of lingerie, that hurt him - until he dug into a small denim clutch. It was empty, but the inside pocket was partially unzipped. Casey finished unzipping it. Inside it was a balled up receipt, a credit card receipt for a taxi. Casey looked at it. It might mean nothing. But the clutch was mismatched to all the glamorous, high-end fashion items otherwise in the closet. It looked well used, old.

Casey called his analysts and told them he was sending a photo of the receipt. He was going to play a hunch. He knew enough about Carina, although he realized he probably knew very little overall, to know that she did not herself have the extravagant tastes her covers almost always did. Well, maybe in the bedroom. _Stay in the now!_ But that purse seemed like something that might genuinely belong to Carina Miller, not just to Karen Mahler.

Casey made sure everything was back in order. Then he went to the desk in the main room of the suite. He pulled a bug out of his pocket and leaned down to place it near the base of the desk lamp. He stalled. There was already a bug there - one exactly like the one Casey had in his hand, He stood there for a moment, puzzling, then placed his bug alongside the other, double bugs, and left the suite.

* * *

The security cameras at the Seattle Greyhound terminal had been down when Bartowski arrived, so Brown had no security feed to pirate and consult about what had happened there. But later, a tourist who had been on the bus uploaded a phone video. She had been taking a video of her husband, talking about the glories of bus travel. Bartowski, grey-suited and tall, crossed behind him, bags in hand. He was almost to another bus when a man - facial ID determined him to be John Casey but Brown's eyes had been faster - stepped forward. Just as he did, a window of the bus shattered and then the video went off.

Presumably, Walker fired that shot. She missed. That was odd enough to need an explanation. Brown watched the video a couple of times, then he erased his copy and expunged the woman's upload from social media. The Internet gives, the Company takes away. Brown was not sure what was going on, but he was not going to take a side in it yet. He was getting less and less sure it would be Graham's. Something was going on with Bartowski and something with Walker - Brown was willing to let it play itself out.

* * *

Carina was listening intently. Sarah answered the phone expecting, hoping, it was Chuck.

"Um...Hi, Ellie. Yes, this is Sarah."

Silence.

"Ellie?"

"Sarah," Ellie's voice was low, calm yet fierce, "what _the fuck_ are you doing with Chuck's phone? _Where is my brother?_" Sarah did not really know Ellie but she felt the suppressed rage in the other woman.

"I don't know, Ellie," Sarah found herself reporting, truthfully, "I was hoping he was calling to tell me where he is."

More damped-down rage: "And he would be calling his own phone..._why? _Why do you have his phone, Sarah, and _what the hell,_" Ellie's voice rose heading toward a shout, "what the hell were you doing in our apartment complex carrying a black goddamn ski mask?"

_She saw me. _

"Ellie, listen, please. Give me the benefit of the doubt. There's a good reason for all of this. I will tell you. But I need you to remain calm and let me ask you a question first."

Silence and then an answer from between obviously clenched teeth. "Okay."

"Has Chuck got any medical conditions that might be...problematic?"

"No, well, he has a problem with itchy skin now and then - eczema, a minor case, really confined to one elbow mostly; he uses a cream…" For a moment, Ellie sounded calmer, her voice slipped into her professional cadence, her tone a beside-manner tone. Then it ended. "Now tell me what is going on!"

Sarah closed her eyes, knowing what was coming, but she had to ask. "Has Chuck ever had a seizure?"

"SEIZURE? No! What the fuck is going on? Tell me where Chuck is, you bitch! What have you done to my brother? TELL ME!"

Sarah made herself breathe. It hurt to be called that by Ellie, even if Sarah saw it coming - even if, as was true, she deserved it and far worse. She told Chuck she would not kill him. Sarah had made her choice. _I've crossed the line. _She started softly. "Ellie, please. My name is Sarah Walker. I work for the CIA. Your brother has gotten involved in something. Not his fault, but it has security ramifications, _national security. _I am going to, I have been, protecting him. I have his phone because he...lost it and I found it," Sarah flinched internally at the half-truth. "He called me. He told me he has a bad headache. Has he had trouble with that before?"

Sarah could hear Ellie's harsh breathing, could hear Ellie's renewed effort to control herself. Her breathing smoothed out before she finally answered. "No, not really. I mean, when he was younger, young really, eight or nine, he started having headaches. They mostly went away, at least in terms of frequency, but sometimes - they come back. They are rare though. And nothing like seizures or the headaches that might follow a seizure. He never had slurred speech or anything during the headaches...Sarah, is my brother hurt, sick? Sarah, Sarah? Godddamn it, answer me!"

"I don't know, Ellie, I honestly don't know. But I am hoping he will call. You have my word, as soon as I have him...as soon as we are together, I will have your brother call. I will arrange for you to see him, examine him, if you want."

"Sarah, if you are lying to me, if you hurt him or abandon him when he needs your help, I swear to God I will find you and I will use my surgically trained hands to do things to you that will shatter my Hippocratic oath beyond any possible re-assembly, things that will blacken my soul. Do you understand me, _Agent Walker_? I love him; he is the only family I have. He is a good man."

"I understand. And, I know, Ellie. I...I really do know that. He's good. Better than anyone knows, including himself."

Sarah heard Ellie exhale, a long, slow breath out. "I think you believe that. Okay. Call me soon, Sarah, or I start calling newspapers and police stations and my congresswoman with your name and description and a newsworthy story. I'll keep calling until someone listens."

"I will call, Ellie. It may take time. Be patient. I will text you from Chuck's phone as soon as he gets in touch and I will keep you up-to-date." Sarah ended the call before Ellie could change her mind.

Carina was sitting with her mouth open. "Wow." She shook her head. "Chuck's...sister?" Sarah nodded. "Wow. Go, Team Sarah!"

* * *

Sarah had almost no time to think when Chuck's phone rang again. Sarah actually looked at the screen this time. _Not_ Ellie.

"Chuck?"

"Agent Walker?" Sarah's heart stumbled after leaping. She wanted to be _Sarah. _

"Yes, I was hoping you would call. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. I want to...meet with you, talk to you, face-to-face."

_Yes. _"Okay, Chuck. Where?"

"At MoPop, the restaurant inside, the Culture Kitchen, 10:35 am."

"MoPop?"

"The Museum of Pop Culture. There's a security check to get inside. Be sure you go through it, please. I will know if you don't."

"Alright, Chuck. But I promise: I will not hurt you."

"Spy promises are worthless. Female spy promises are worth even less." Chuck's voice changed, tightened.

"What, Chuck?"

Cough. "Sorry, sorry. Just repeating something I heard. Sorry. 10:35 am."

"Chuck," Sarah tried to catch him.

"I hope you aren't expecting to be kissed."

Silence. Gentle laughter. "A gentleman never expects to be kissed, and tells. Goodbye, Agent Walker."

Sarah could not come up with a response before Chuck was gone.

* * *

Chuck was first in line at MoPop. He waited, gazing up at the Sky Needle, towering above the Museum. He had always wanted to visit there and had dreamed of seeing _The Infinite Worlds of Science Fiction_ exhibit, seeing its 'artifacts' from sci-fi films and TV shows.

He had never expected to actually get to MoPop - and certainly not like this. Saving his money to get a place of his own had kept him from traveling for a long time - but even if had money, he was not sure he would have ever made the trip.

He smiled at the woman who sold him his ticket while frowning inside, nervous and unsure, noticing the slight tremble in his hand as he reached out to take the ticket.

He dreaded a flash, dreaded having to contend with his dad about the choice to meet with...Sarah. _I'm going to call her 'Sarah'. Enough. _ He tried to be cautious about where he allowed his attention to settle.

He could feel a part of himself silently rebelling against meeting Sarah. Still, it had been his dad who told him to use his heart - to pit it against his head if necessary - and that was what he was doing. She might kill him, true. Capture him, true. She may have been lying with her eyes when she looked at him in the Buy More, true. She may have been trying to kill him at the terminal, true. Intellectually, he knew all that was true. His heart denied all of it and simply affirmed _her. _

How he could be here to meet Sarah, so unsure and yet with palms as clammy as that night long ago, his first real date, junior prom. That had ended...suffice it to say, it did not end well. And here he was again, about to meet a woman whose corsage was dead leaves, whose blue naked eyes had seen what Chuck had only seen in file photos. A woman who had killed, multiple times. But did that make her a killer, in the habitual sense of the term? Chuck had known an old man who lived near him and Ellie not long after their dad abandoned them. The old man would sit on his front steps and smoke sometimes. Chuck would sit with him and talk, surrogate father. One day, Chuck referred to the old man as a smoker. The old man smiled indulgently and responded: "I smoke sometimes; that doesn't make me a smoker. You've seen me irritated; that doesn't make me irritable." Chuck never forgot that smoky lesson. Sarah could have killed, even multiple times, without becoming a killer. What touched her hands might not have worked itself inward, all the way to her heart, death deadening it to death. _Why do I believe that? That she is not a killer? Heart vs. head..._

Inside, Chuck took off his shoulder bag, the only thing he was currently carrying, and put it on the belt to go through security. He walked through the metal detectors, no beep, and, as he reclaimed his bag, he said hello to the still-sleepy guard, the only one stationed there.

The man was poured into a uniform for a smaller man: the uniform's cup was overflowing. The guard had obviously often had a table prepared for him - in the presence of his enemies, or somebody or other. But Chuck was the one about to walk through the valley of the shadow.

"Hey, buddy, my girlfriend's gonna meet me here in a little bit. She's tall, blonde, very pretty. Would you be willing to help me? I was teasing her the other day about her hair being so _platinum_ blond it would set off a metal detector. It's really not, but could you make that thing buzz when she goes through? Make her go through it twice? She's sporting; she'll think it's funny."

The guard gave Chuck a long, weighing glance, then slowly smiled and nodded. "You sure she won't care? I can push a button and make it beep. You don't want me to make it beep the second time, right? 'Cause I do have to actually make sure she's not bringing anything improper in."

"No, really test her both times. I just want her to have to go through twice. Can you do that?" The man nodded. Chuck leaned closer, recognizing one of his people. "Hey, how's the sci-fi exhibit?"

The man's eyes lit up. "Great! I'm going to go again after my shift today. It'll be like my sixth time. I love that _Lost in Space _robot. '_Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!'_"

Chuck laughed, trying to hide how unnerved he was by the phrase. "Yeah, great, great show. Thanks. I'll be down the hallway when she gets here. Her name is…" Chuck mentally pulled an alias from her file, "...Illana. But don't call her that." The guard's eyes widened. "I know, she doesn't look like an Illana." The guard's face took on an _I-have-no-idea-how-an-Illana-should-look _look.

Chuck walked away, listening to the guard practice saying the name. He got a table for four in the corner of the restaurant, and took the seat against the wall for himself, taking off his grey suit coat and folding it carefully, then putting it over the back of the seat beside him. He asked for two glasses of water along with menus when the waitress came by. He sat down and looked at his watch. 10:18 am. When the waitress brought the water and menus, he asked her if she would mind keeping an eye on his coat: he wanted to step out and meet his girlfriend. The waitress shrugged her willingness and Chuck left, finding a place to stand that allowed him to watch the entrance without being immediately visible to someone coming in. He expected her to be early.

He was right. At 10:25 am, she walked in. She stood in line for a minute, then stepped up to security.

* * *

Sarah slept on Carina's couch for a few hours. Carina was still asleep when Sarah got up, went downstairs and got her suitcase out of her car, came back and showered. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and made do with no make-up. She was still smarting from Ellie's remarks, from Ellie having seen her mask. She did not want a make-up mask on when she saw Chuck.

She looked at herself. She had put on a blue blouse with little blue buttons, jeans, and plain black flats. She looked like a young woman about to spend the day with a friend, or a boyfriend. She did not look like an assassin or a spy. She did not feel like one either. She reached up to straighten the collar of her blouse and realized her hand was trembling. _Butterflies. _She smiled at herself in the mirror. All her life she had believed that butterflies were either a myth or that she was somehow defective, unable to have them. Neither was true. They were real and her insides were a butterfly house, a vast flutter of monarchs.

She began to imagine how the conversation might go, what they might talk about - other than the obvious. She was lost in her imagination when she heard Carina make a noise.

Carina was standing in the bathroom doorway, looking at Sarah indirectly by looking directly at Sarah's reflection. "Get too involved in what you are imagining, girl, and you are going to be soooo easy."

Sarah smiled and bowed slightly from the waist. "I acknowledge the wisdom of the Empress of Easy."

Carina laughed but blushed slightly. She got a funny expression on her face. "Wait, Sarah. You just made a joke. Oh. My. God. It's a sign of the End Times." Carina's expression became mischevious: "Or it's a sign of the _Rapture, Sarah's_ rapture.

Sarah shook her head and felt the butterflies again. "No, it's a new start; I'm terrified. Now that it's come, I'm afraid of him, Carina."

Carina crossed the short distance between them and hugged Sarah hard. "Don't be. It will go away when you see him, I'm guessing. Go get him. Your target. Maybe he's always been your target, maybe you've always been chasing him. You deserve him; don't doubt that. And I suspect he deserves you."

* * *

Sarah walked up to MoPop and grinned.

The whimsy of the architecture suited the building, given its purpose. Sarah realized that she must have seen the building before since she had been in the Space Needle before. She had gone in late at night with a target and left alone, calling cleaners in as she walked out. Her grin died and she stopped. How could she go into MoPop and meet Chuck in the shadow of that past, her past? What new start would she be allowed? Didn't happiness have to be merited?

Wasn't _unmerited happiness_ a conceptual Medusa - didn't the very idea turn thought to stone? Heaven, Hell, both ideas anchored in place by the seemingly irresistible thought that happiness, golden crowns, eventually had to be apportioned only to the meritorious, with something else, unhappiness, flames, a punishment meted out to those without merit. Sheep and had read the bible in fits and starts, in hideous green Gideon's editions, when she had been left alone by her father in motel rooms.

She could not go forward. For a moment, Sarah started to turn around, to turn her back on her new start, to stop before she started, to accept the consequence of being without merit. But two sets of words came back to her mind, one from Carina: "You deserve him; don't doubt that", and one from a green Gideon she had hunched over alone, desperately beating back a child's loneliness: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

Sarah had no idea if there was a God, if that green book was for real, but, if there was, if the book was, she would be damned if she was going to believe Him (Her? It? Them?) to be nothing more than a bloated Langston-Graham-in-the-Sky, running the Universe like the Company.

She started again; she walked to the ticket window. She was going to trust herself to mercy, Chuck's, God's, the Universe's. _Mercy_. She paid the price and went inside.

She walked up to security and put her bag on the belt. She brought no weapons, neither in her bag nor on her person. She wanted Chuck to know she was as good as her word. She wanted to meet him as a woman, not an agent, to the extent that was possible. It was a huge risk, for her and for him, with Casey out there, with Fulcrum out there. She was determined to run it.

She stepped through the metal detector and it beeped. She looked up at the guard, confused. He shook his head and motioned for her to go back and try again. Just as she turned to obey, she thought she saw a half-smile on the guard's face. When she repositioned herself to walk through a second time, she saw Chuck in the distance, down the hall, watching her intently but smiling himself. She saw him glance at the guard. She walked through again, catching Chuck's eyes as she did so. No beep, but Chuck smiled. The guard handed her her purse and leaned toward her, careful though not to invade her space. "He said you were very pretty. He was right. Hope you don't mind. He said you'd get the joke."

Sarah smiled at him, nodding, playing along. _Chuck, you are a clever man. _She took her purse and turned back to look at Chuck. He was studying her. His smile was gone. Another look, inscrutable, had taken its place.

* * *

Carina was sitting on the couch, music playing, drinking coffee, thinking. The first three were common, the fourth, uncommon. She heard a knock on her door. She got up and walked to the door, pulling her robe closed around her. She left her coffee on the coffee table. She peered through the peephole. John Casey was standing there. She let her robe fall open, and unlocked the door.

* * *

Ellie called Morgan. She woke him, of course. She told him to come over. She needed to talk to him. Her explanation was four words long: "I talked to Sarah."

* * *

Zondra sat down in the coffee shop at an isolated booth. After putting down her cold brew and shedding her backpack, she took out her laptop and checked her secure folder. The promised material from Graham had arrived. She took a notebook out of her pocket and began to read about Eleanor Bartowski. _What a last name. Imagine dragging that thing around. _

As Zondra read, her bravado flagged. The enormity of what she was about to do settled on her like a weight, forcing a question from her: Why on earth would Langston Graham order the termination of a neurosurgeon? The file did not make that clear. At all. The file contained mostly old photos, many going back to Ellie's college years at UCLA. Someone had been interested in her for a long time; no one had compiled a case against her for anything, not evening something trumped up. At least there was nothing in the file. The woman had a brother. A boyfriend. A life. No trace so spying, treason, violence. Shutting her eyes and dipping her head, Zondra bit her lower lip hard.

_Not my call. I do the job, I don't decide the job. Division of labor. I can be like Walker. I can be better than Walker. If she can do it, I can, absolutely. A day or two to plan, then a day to execute._

* * *

Chuck watched Sarah collect her purse and trade words with the guard and smile. Chuck's heart sped up; emotion welled up in him: loneliness, long loneliness, and longing. Hope, maybe delusive but still real, a tenderness he could not explain but that targeted a woman known for hardness - so much emotion, a kaleidoscope.

As she turned to him, she suddenly turned blue. Or seemed to turn blue. She was suffused in blue light, standing beneath blue stained glass, waiting for him instead of him waiting for her. _Illusion, Chuck. It's an illusion. _He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them, the dreamy state was gone; Sarah was walking toward him, not suffused in blue despite her blue blouse, so perfect for her. He waited for her to reach him. He held out his hand.

* * *

Chuck's inscrutable look passed. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. At first, Sarah thought it might be another 'seizure' episode, but that did not seem true. It had been something else. He watched her walk toward him and he held out his hand. Was she supposed to shake it? _No. _She took his hand in hers. Held his hand. He held hers.

* * *

They stood and looked at each other, their eyes locked. Then they both looked at their joined hands. At the same moment, they let go and looked back up, each smiling, embarrassed, sure and still unsure.

Chuck wiped his palm against the leg of his pants and extended it again, clearly to shake her hand. Sarah was aflutter with butterflies. "Hi, Agent Sarah Walker, I am Chuck Bartowski."

She laughed softly. His face lit up. As she shook his hand: "I know who you are, Chuck."

He smiled like that was a surprise. "I guess I know who you are too." A twinge of panic scattered Sarah's butterflies, but they quickly reformed and returned.

"I'd like to talk to you about that, Chuck."

He smiled at her, the smile she had imagined and hoped for at the Buy More, the smile from his Stanford photo, the talking smile. "I will tell you anything you want to know, but I can't guarantee you will believe it."

"Try me, Chuck; trust me."

"That's why I am here, Sarah." There: he said it: 'Sarah', just 'Sarah'. Not another 'Agent Walker', not the drugged slurred 'Sarah' of the phone call.

"I like it when you say my name, Sarah." She could not respond verbally; she blushed bright with pleasure.

"I have a table." He turned and led her into the restaurant, exposing his back. Given his openness before all this had happened, Sarah had been taken aback by the double-check at security.

Whatever was going on with him, he was a quick study. And he was not closed. He turned his back on her, trusted her not to stab him in it. He led her to a table. He stepped around it to the chair against the wall, motioning in invitation to the chair across from him, the one directly in front of her.

She took a second to look at him. His white dress shirt was rumpled. Now that she was near him, she could see stains on the sleeves. He had on his tie, but it hung loosely from his open shirt collar. Rumpled or not, though, she liked the suit and she liked him in it. She sat down and waited until she was seated to seat himself.

They sat like that, facing each other, for what seemed like minutes. Chuck grinned eventually, and he leaned across the table, bringing his face near hers, his eyes focused steadily on hers. He stopped, suspended above the tabletop, and he puckered his lips and closed his eyes. Sarah sat, frozen.

A couple who had taken a table across the otherwise empty restaurant was watching her, watching Chuck. Like Chuck, they were leaning forward, unlike Chuck, they did it unconsciously; urging her to respond in their body language. Sighing, she leaned across to him and gave him the ghost of a kiss on the lips, the contact, so light and ephemeral, barely existent, still shockwaved through her system. He opened his eyes and grinned again. She looked away. "Thought we should just end the suspense," Chuck offered. But Sarah had seen the shockwaves in his eyes too.

Sarah wanted to kiss him again. And again. She wanted to sweep the glasses and placemats and cutlery off the table and pull him up onto it and...

"So, Chuck, if I am going to help you, I need to understand. Do you have the Intersect or not? How could you have it and not be able to give it to me?"

His grin disappeared. "It's really not a riddle. Well, now that I think about it, maybe it is. How much do you know about the Intersect?"

"Not much," Sarah admitted with a shallow slug. "My mission is to get it, not understand it. I know that it has a treasure-trove of state secrets on it and that the program does not just store the secrets, it somehow...compiles or analyzes them too...finds patterns?"

Chuck nodded. "That's right, and I will go ahead and tell you, I don't know much more about how it works or what it really does than you do."

"How can that be, Chuck. You...know things...things you shouldn't know. You've been saving people, sometimes in bunches, sometimes individually, and how could you have done that unless you were using the Intersect?"

Chuck looked down at his hands He had put them on the tabletop and spread his long fingers, almost as if he were bracing himself. "'Using it' is not the happiest phrase, Sarah. Being used by it might be happier, although 'happiest phrase' is not, in this case, the happiest phrase."

Sarah shook her head. "Huh? What do you mean, Chuck?"

He looked up at her and then back down at his hands. He spoke with his head down. "Sarah, do you remember a mission of yours, a termination mission on which the target had the code name, Orion?" Chuck was still staring at his hands.

Sarah's stomach plunged, her heart raced. She knew he knew things about her. She had never really made herself ask the question of how much. She knew he knew she was an assassin; the knowledge had been on his terrified face in the Buy More. But how could he know about Orion unless he was using the Intersect? _Being used by it? What does that mean? _Chuck still would not look at her. She had the sudden feeling that this was a decisive moment for her, for them. Her answers now were going to matter.

"Yes, Chuck, I remember." _I have admitted what I am. _"Why?"

"Orion is the creator of the Intersect."

"Yes, I know that now. I only learnt it shortly before I arrived in Burbank."

"Orion's real name?"

"Never given to me, Chuck, for reasons no one explained. I had a grainy photograph and a description. He was a hard man to chase. I never caught him."

"Orion is my dad. Stephen Bartowski."

Sarah felt the hope she had been clinging to for days fray and unwind in her hands. This was done before it started. So much for her new start. Orion was Stephen Bartowski. Sarah had been under orders to kill Chuck's dad. The photograph from Ellie and Chuck's apartment, the one showing the family in front of the house. When Sarah had looked at it, only the _Sold _sign and the house had been salient for her; she had barely looked at the family themselves. The man was plausibly a younger version of the man in the grainy photo she had carried around Europe.

Chuck finally looked up. His eyes were complicated; she could gain no guidance from them. "Would you have killed him if you had caught up with him?"

Sarah shut her eyes. _My entire life squeezed into one complicated question. If I say yes, I am a killer and we are done. If I say no, I am a liar and we are done. The worse thing is that I am a killer and a liar. What am I doing here? Why did I think I could change? Why did I think he could overlook the monster? Why? _ "Yes, Chuck, I would have. That was what I fully intended to do. Terminate Orion. That was the order I was following." _Goodbye, Chuck. _

Chuck's gaze remained layered, difficult. He just sat there, looking at her. The waiter arrived and put menus in front of them, but she seemed to sense the thickness of the moment, and she retreated without any words.

Chuck picked up the menu. His gaze softened, simplified. "I hear you aren't a popular culture fan?"

_Whiplash._ Sarah could not understand what had just happened.

Chuck saw the confusion in Sarah's eyes. He had to ask that question and she had to tell him the truth. He was not sure if she would have terminated his dad or not. Maybe, if she had remained in the dark. But maybe not. Anyway, it was in the past and what mattered was whether he could trust her in the present. The easy choice would have been to lie and then to try to turn the lie into a ground for trust, but she had not made the easy choice.

Sarah tried to pick up the conversational thread. "You must have heard that from Carina. She has always managed to keep up with that sort of thing and still do her job. I haven't managed that, and my childhood was...atypical."

"I get that," Chuck said. "Mine too. But I guess your having once had a termination order for my dad sorta shows that...in spades."

Sarah winced slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that he was anyone's dad. I was just told…"

"...'To eliminate a threat to national security', right. Graham's actual words."

"That's right. But how could you know that unless…"

Chuck waved his hand gently and his smile returned. "Sarah, do you want to know where the Intersect is?"

"If you are willing to tell me, yes."

Chuck tapped his temple and gave her a significant look. "When Bryce, your old...partner...sent it to me, it downloaded itself into my head. I can't give it to you because I _am_ the Intersect, I don't _have_ it."

Sarah started to deny that was possible, but she caught herself. Possible or not, it made so much sense.

Chuck started at the beginning. "I opened Bryce's email…" He was not going to tell her Orion, his dad, was in his head. That was too crazy.

* * *

Morgan stared at the empty email from Bryce, processing all Ellie had told him. "I gotta say, an email from Bryce just as this got started. A beautiful CIA agent with a scary mask. A hulking supersoldier. National security. There's only one conclusion..."

Ellie nodded. "Right, Bryce goddamn Larkin is a spy, too."

Morgan straightened. "Huh? No, I meant, Chuck is fucked."

Ellie smacked the back of Morgan's head. "We'll give Sarah a day. If I don't hear from her, I am going to start screaming so loud they will hear me in DC."

* * *

"So, certain items trigger these…" Sarah paused, unsure of how to go on. Chuck's hands, still on the table, were now covered by hers although neither had acknowledged it.

"Flashes, I guess. That's how I am thinking of them. But the flashes are just the foreground, the...well, the flashy stuff. The damn thing is in my head, ticking over, running all the time, working. It's been...leading me. It led me to General Stanfield and it led me to Carina Miller. And, let me tell you, when it flashes, when I flash, it hurts. It's getting worse. But it's almost as if the Intersect keeps leading me to moments, places, where flashes are likely, and I never know what to do until I have a flash. I just have a vague sense that there is something that I need to do, a direction to go."

Sarah nodded. It all sounded completely crazy, but he was not crazy and he was not lying. She could see now how tired he was, how deep his exhaustion went.

"So, to back up for a minute, you flashed me at the Buy More?"

He laughed. "No, I flashed _on _you. If it had been the other, you'd have been the one running." He kept laughing and she joined in.

After a moment, though, he stopped laughing. He looked down at her hands atop his, drawing her eyes down too. "I flashed on it all, Sarah. Your official CIA files, Graham's private files. My dad found a way to get to everything of Graham's and Beckman's, the stuff they hid from the CIA and NSA. I...know it all." He moved his hands from beneath hers.

Sarah thought he was breaking contact, but instead, he reversed the structure, his hands coming to rest atop hers. He caressed the back of one of her hands, gently, slowly, with his thumb. It felt so good Sarah closed her eyes and trembled. But, as wonderful as it felt, it meant so much more: he had just told her he knew her, knew it all, all she had done, Enforcer, Ice Queen, all. And, knowing all, he was caressing her hand. Tears trekked down her cheek. This was more unbelievable than the computer in his head. He had taken an assassin in his heart.

"There's more I need to tell you, but do you think we are safe enough to take a few minutes, here? There's an exhibit I want to see."

She should say no. Casey. Fulcrum. There was more she needed to know, to understand. She needed to tell him about Ellie and then contact her.

"Sure."

They left without ever ordering.

* * *

Chuck clicked on the light in the stone-walled room. Sarah's mouth was hanging open. "Orion did all of this?"

Chuck nodded. "It was for himself, primarily, at least that's what I think, but secondarily for me. He used to tell me I was aces. That's how I knew where to go, what doors to use, um...information in the Intersect."

"And something like this was beneath the house in Tarzana, and I missed it?"

"Yes. But you found my note?"

" I did." Sarah turned to him. He was looking at her expectantly. "I liked it. Especially the part about me being very pretty. Do you still think that?"

He blushed his admission. But then he yawned. And blushed again.

"Chuck, we're both tired. I would say this place is safe. I'm sure no one followed us. Maybe we should get some sleep?"

"Sure. You take the bed. I'll get a blanket and sleep on the floor."

"No, Chuck, I'm not making you sleep on the floor. It'll be a squeeze, but we can both sleep in the bed. As long as you can behave yourself," she added, giving him a challenging look.

"Oh, I can behave; I'm just not convinced you want me to, despite that chaste kiss I got in the restaurant."

"Chaste?"

"Yes, to be chased up the west side of the country, chased, chased all that way only to get that chaste kiss."

"Ha, funny. I will have you know that the chasteness of that kiss was your doing. You are the one who gave me a choice between killing you and kissing you…"

She grinned at him, enjoying the moment, the give-and-take, something they somehow already had before they met but that they rediscovered as they toured the _Infinite Worlds of Science Fiction, _quickly becoming comfortable with each other, and always touching, often hand-in-hand. Forgetting everything outside of MoPop, everyone else.

Chuck looked puzzled, then she saw him understand. "Oh, I see! If you really kissed me, it would kill me."

"You don't have a computer in your head for nothing."

"Well, I am officially going on record as willing to risk my life. I am, you know, an explorer of the outer regions of human experience…"

"I didn't know that."

_There's so much I didn't know, Chuck, so much I want to learn. Life is not a sentence to be served. It's full of wildness and pang and wonder, and I have closed myself off to it all for too long, serving out my damned sentence._

Sarah closed the distance between them and stared into his eyes. He leaned forward again and puckered up. Sighing again, she put a hand on each of his cheeks and she kissed him as well as she knew how, with promise and desire, with hope and imagination.

When she finished, he just stood in place, leaning forward, flushed and panting, his eyes still closed. "Am I still here? I admit I saw a bright light and I may have passed over to the other side."

"No," Sarah said, taking his hand and putting it over one breast. "You are still here. But not for long."

He opened his eyes. Open, so open. She felt a deep vulnerability of her own, an answering openness to him, something unprecedented in her experience. She caught her breath as he caressed her over the blue blouse, her hand gently holding his in place. His breathing had become even more ragged. Hers was ragged now too.

"You know me, you know all about me, and you still want me, Chuck?"

"I don't know all about you, Sarah. I want to know the things only you can teach me."

She tugged him, still holding his caressing hand in place, toward the bed. They fell back on it, laughing, her hands now caressing him. They discovered the whole wide world in that small, stone-walled room.

* * *

A/N: One more chapter in Book One, _Inheritance. _Pieces moving everywhere in all sorts of directions, eh?

Never been to MoPop, although I walked by it (and the Space Needle) once. I have no idea exactly what 'artifacts' make up the _Infinite Worlds of Science Fiction _exhibit, but I put the _Lost in Space _robot there.

Thanks so much for all the responses. I enjoy your thoughts and reactions. I hope to keep hearing from you!

Chapter Theme: Frightened Rabbit, _Blood Under the Bridge._


	13. Chapter 11: Behind the Wall of Sleep

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

This short chapter is a coda to Book One.

* * *

"_Something was going on with Bartowski and something with Walker - Brown was willing to let it play itself out."_

"_Sarah, if you are lying to me, if you hurt him or abandon him when he needs your help, I swear to God I will find you and I will use my surgically trained hands to do things to you that will shatter my Hippocratic oath beyond any possible re-assembly, things that will blacken my soul."_

"_Wow. Go, Team Sarah!"_

"_Spy promises are worthless. Female spy promises are worth even less." _

"_I desire mercy, not sacrifice."_

"_And, knowing all, he was caressing her hand...This was more unbelievable than the computer in his head. He had taken an assassin in his heart."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Behind the Wall of Sleep**

* * *

Sated, absolutely sated. Happy, blissfully happy. Excited and expectant. But still exhausted, actually now _more _exhausted - who knew he could summon up that sort of energy, who knew what she could call forth from him? _Everything I have. _Chuck held Sarah in his arms and lingered on the edge of sleep. Exhausted herself, she had burrowed into him, inhaled deeply, placed her feet against his and she had fallen immediately asleep.

Chuck was falling, falling too, falling asleep...falling...

_She didn't kill you..._me_. She bedded me instead. I am now her mark. I can't let you..._myself _believe this. That she would meet me face-to-face and a few hours later... take me to bed. I am now her mark…I would be better off dead..._

The thoughts slipped into and out of his consciousness, field mice passing, barely disturbing the grass...Slipping. Slipping. He slept.

* * *

_Dream state_.

Blue stained-glass. _Mary_. Always Mary and never Mary. His love and his torment. Stephen drew near her in the _La Sagrada Familia_. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek but without apparent feeling.

"It's not safe, us meeting like this. I came. Why are you here? I am on a mission," she paused her whisper significantly, "I am trying to get to him, to Volkoff. You are threatening months of ….demanding work."

"Months of what _kind _of work?"

Her eyes flicked away and then back. "I do what I have to do for the mission, Stephen."

"Like with me. I was somebody you had to _do _for a mission?"

Her shoulders slumped. The blue light seemed to be coming as much from inside her as outside her. She shed blue light. "No, Stephen. We have covered this and covered this. I loved you...I love you, Stephen. You were never my mark. My asset for a time, never my mark. I slept with you because I wanted to, not because of orders. I kept sleeping with you for the same reason. Because of how I felt about you."

Stephen's lips had compressed as she spoke. _Past tense. _He levered them open. "But you _had _orders?"

She nodded. "We've covered this. You know I did. That does not determine what I did, Stephen, what it meant to me. Do you think I married you and bore you children _on orders?_"

Stephen shrugged, his pain turning the shrug hateful somehow.

Mary saw and felt it. There was a wince in her voice. "We can't do this here, it's too public. Meet me at the Zoo at 2 pm. Dolphin exhibit."

Stephen saw the hurt in her eyes and he felt even more miserable. Somehow everything between them now seemed to cause them both pain. It was all poisoned, poisonous. He was desperate to know where she had been and what she had been doing all these months. He was desperate not to know too. Had their vows now made her an infidel, had she broken all the promises she had made him, the way she had broken their family? What had she done for her mission? _Don't tell me_.

She walked away without looking back. Stephen, defeated, crossed the interior of the _La Sagrada Familia _\- the irony was not lost on him; no, he was drowning in it: the name, _La Sagrada Familia, _The Holy Family. _Family_. A lie. Marriage. A lie. Mary, a liar. Children, born lies. He crossed from the blue light of the Nativity Façade to the red light of the Passion Façade, turning from blue to red. He walked through the heavy wooden doors carved full of scriptural words, and went outside.

He glanced up to see the heavy, square, disturbing statues of the Passion Façade, and a few moments later realized he was just standing there, staring at the statues of Judas kissing Christ. He bit his lip hard, drawing blood, hoping to force himself not to think of Mary, and crossed the street into the tree-filled park opposite the _Basilica. _

Mary could say what she wanted. Stephen _knew_. She had married her mark, and he had remained her mark. He had never been her husband, never her lover, except in the bare, physical sense. And she had never loved their children. To find her, Stephen had abandoned them too. He had hunted her for a while before he realized he was incompetent to find a spy. He went to DC and...forced...Graham to let him go to the Farm, a crash course. He turned out to be better at it than anyone, himself included, expected. He finished his abbreviated training with a full skill set and went back to Europe. It had taken him time and involved the slow improvement of his skills, but he had found her. Finally found her.

She would talk to him whether she liked it or not. He looked at his watch. Time to kill before the Zoo.

* * *

Sarah woke up almost on top of Chuck, draped over him.

She thrilled to realize she was not dreaming. She was in bed with her target. Not her badge's target, her heart's target. He had been that since the photo. Inexplicable, but perfect. She felt weightless and grounded at the same time.

It was a surprise that being with a man could create so much pleasure mixed so inseparably with so much joy. The pleasure and the joy had fused, become one thing, overwhelming, sensory and emotional, bodily and spiritual, all united in her as she was united with him: she had felt whole for the first time in her life, and holy for the first time in her life. Never had she known such prayerful, devoted attention, or such genuine hunger for her, the woman, not just her woman's body.

Her imagination, newly alive and newly strengthened, had been inadequate to imagining it, although she had been imagining it since the photo on the plane to Burbank. Through the entirety of their lovemaking, she strove to be more present to Chuck, present and yet more present, open and yet more open. to reveal yet more of herself, instead of turning from him, striving to be absent, to conceal herself, close. She dared to hope and had been rewarded beyond her hopes, even beyond her dreams.

She breathed him in as deeply as she could, his scent calming her, reassuring her, as it had in Burbank.

_I have no idea what will happen next. That's okay. I'm ready for more surprises. You are right, Carina; I've become a real girl._

She readjusted her feet between his, and let herself drift back to sleep. Not a dream: so much more.

* * *

_Dream state_.

Intersect dream. Patterns. North. Go north. Turn right. New needs. Sub-patterns clearer, the larger pattern still out of reach. Local meaning in global unmeaning. Doubles. CIA infiltrated. NSA infiltrated. Compromises. Betrayals. Graham. Beckman. Shadowy figures, Fulcrum. Sarah. Betrayals.

* * *

_Dream state._

Sarah's eyes. Blue. Blue-stained glass. No, blue stained-glass. No, she was not there. Not her, the wrong woman. Mary. Mom. Chuck jerked awake.

* * *

Casey jerked against the handcuffs. Metal on metal on flesh. _Shit._

He blamed her perfume. _Carina's_. _I know better. _

She had opened her door to him, wearing a short robe over some even shorter, shimmery thing. He had smelt the perfume before he came in. He started to ask about Walker, and suddenly Carina was pressed against him, her mouth on his, absolutely insistent. The taste of her, the scent of her, the memory evoked, had carried him into her bedroom. They crashed awkwardly on the bed.

Casey stood up to shuck off his pants, his mind in the present and on their past together, living and re-living. She pushed herself up toward the head of the bed and she shed her robe, shoving it beneath her pillow.

She reached out her long white arms, her body a shimmering landscape, and Casey bent into her arms - and then felt the pinprick on the back of his neck.

He had been calling her name since he came to, but she seemed to be gone. She had left a note on his chest. "We'll talk later. We have a lot to talk about. Hope you can hold it. Nice boxers, as always."

He always underestimated Miller. Never again.

So there he was on her bed in his shirt and boxers and socks, handcuffed to the metal headboard. He was not going anywhere. _God rotting perfume!_

At least his stomach was not hurting, even if he was pissed.

* * *

Dream state.

_Zoo de Barcelona. _

Near the zoo, Stephen drank cortados for an hour. _Like my nerves need the hits. _The clear, brilliant morning had turned into a cold, rainy afternoon. Stephen was sitting at a shop in the Passeig de Picasso. He had chosen it so that he could sit out of the rain. He also hoped Mary might walk that way to the Zoo, but he had not seen her. He paid for his coffees and got up, turning the collar of his olive drab jacket up, some small protection against the heavy, icy drops.

The Zoo in the rain. Fitting. He walked under the arch of the Passeig for as far as he could, then crossed over into the grounds of the Zoo. Water immediately began to soak through his shoes, his jacket. He jogged along, dodging puddles until he reached the entrance. He paid and entered the Zoo.

A peacock shrieked as if in warning, he heard it twice more, like cock-crows. The tall trees shielded the walkway from some of the rain, and he stood beneath one and looked at the Zoo guide sign to find the Dolphin exhibit. He noted its location and headed toward it. He stopped at a small, central park and looked up at a tall pedestal, topped by a statue of a woman in what looked like elegant clothing. She was holding an umbrella, shielding herself from the rain. Since it was actually raining, the statue seemed oddly alive, a woman made of warm stone. A woman made of warm stone. He was about to meet one. Mary. He had no idea what would come of the meeting. The morning had not been promising; the afternoon rain seemed an unequivocal bad sign.

Turning to finish his walk to the Dolphin exhibit, Stephen saw two men walking in that direction. His training told him immediately that they had weapons. _Mary!_ For her to be alive and apart from him made him miserable. But he would bear that misery just to know she was, at least, alive. He pressed his hand against his own jacket, feeling the revolver there. He started after the men. They were climbing the blue metal steps leading up into the blue Dolphin exhibit. Stephen moved as fast as he could without running, keeping his eyes on the men and ready to slow to a walk should one look back. Neither did.

_Mary!_

* * *

Sarah woke up, Chuck twisting beneath her, sweating.

His eyes were closed but moving back and forth. Dreaming. But something was wrong. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest and he was beginning to grasp for breath.

"Chuck, Chuck! Wake up, it's a dream."

He sat up, knocking Sarah to the side. He said a word but she could not make it out.

"Chuck!" She reached out and put her hand on his nearest shoulder. He was panting. After a moment, he turned to look at her, and for a moment he did not seem to be himself. His eyes were full of a desperate mistrust, of pain and longing, and just looking into them made Sarah ache. Then his look changed and he seemed to see her. "Sarah," he said her name like a prayer and grabbed her and hugged her to him. She hugged him back. He kept whispering her name. He stopped and he kissed her. "You're still here?" He pulled back, checking.

"I'm not going anywhere, Chuck. If you think that...last night was a one-night thing, you have seriously misunderstood the gravity of our situation." She tried to smile but his earlier look made it hard.

He touched her cheek as if to help her smile. "I don't do one-night...things, Sarah. Last night was the start of something...for me. At least, I want it to be."

"For me too. I want it to be too. Are you sure you are okay? What was going on? A dream, right?"

"The Intersect has been invading my dreams, Sarah, in...in a variety of ways. Every night, I dream...I dream its dreams...and I dream of you."

"Of me?"

"Every night since we met. Of you. Your eyes."

"Every night? Really, Chuck?"

He nodded.

"I've been...imagining this, Chuck, you like this, on top of me…"

She pulled him down on top of her and kissed him. When the kiss broke, she held his eyes with hers. "More, Chuck, please. I don't think I can get enough."

She moved beneath him, aligning them, then he began to move on her.

* * *

Dark.

Zondra was standing at the fountain near Eleanor Bartowski's apartment, taking in the terrain. Killing her at home or at work was not really an option, although her home was better than her work. It would be best though to lure her away, get her to come to someplace empty and deserted. She stared at the apartment door for a moment. She had the lay of the land. It was time to plan.

* * *

Morgan had stayed in Chuck's room, working on his computer, hoping to find something to help with the situation, to make things clearer, but he had found nothing. He had shut the computer down and turned off the lights and sat in the dark for a while, trying to puzzle it all out.

He gave up and was opening the window, the Morgan Door, when he saw an attractive brunette staring at the apartment door. She turned to walk away and Morgan took out his phone. He knew the photo would not show enough to identify her but at least it might prove he had not imagined her.

Strange, Chuck barely dated since Jill, and now there was a phalanx of dangerous-seeming beauties showing up at his door. Morgan was seriously tempted to become a national security risk himself. It looked so worth it.

* * *

Chuck woke up. His watch told him it was almost dawn.

Sarah was warm beside him; it seemed impossible that she was there, that they had spent the night together and spent it together as they had. He looked at her face, soft in sleep. He felt a suffusing tenderness for her and...

_Spy! I'm her mark. Nothing more. -No, I'm...I don't know what. Not a one-night stand. -I can't believe her. Betrayal is her nature. She can't have feelings. She is always only faking it. Last night. Faking it. -No, no she wasn't. Last night was real. -I'm her mark. She would never have slept with me so fast, so soon, if bedding me was not her way of controlling me. She initiated it, right? And I told her, told her about the Intersect. What is she going to do with me? Tie me up and gift me to Graham. -No. No. Wrong. Distortions. Wrong. She's telling me the truth. Last night was the truth. _

...Chuck swung his legs from the bed, put his feet on the cold stone floor. He cradled his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. He head was hurting. It was not blinding or burning pain, just a cold, dull throb. His mind felt leaky. His thoughts felt alien, not composed by him but imposed on him, beamed in from somewhere or someone else.

His dad. Barcelona dreams. They were slowly being superimposed on his life: his mom, Mary, as his dad understood her, superimposed on Sarah, as Chuck understood her.

He should wake Sarah, tell her. Explain it. -_No, don't tell her. Keep your secrets. _No, it was too crazy, more dark magic than twisted tech. She did not think he was crazy...so far, not yet. He could not bear the thought of her pulling back from him, of not sharing what they shared last night. He could manage it, the building chaos in his head; he could. He could keep track of whose thoughts belonged to who, know himself, hold onto himself, hold onto his mind, not inherit his father's.

But it was getting worse as the number of flashes mounted. And he felt an increasingly irresistible tug northward. Once he was on the way, at some point he would need to flash. He would have to dole the flashes out, limit them even more carefully than he had so far.

He looked at Sarah again, fought down the urge to reach out and touch her. He let her sleep. He would have to figure out where they needed to go and then ask her, find out just what she was willing to do and not to do. She had not killed him. She had kissed him - and so much more. She said it was the start of something for her too. But what? What did she want? What could they have as long as he had the Intersect in his head? As long as it was calling the shots, as long as his head echoed with his dad's voice?

Chuck padded to the keyboard and turned on the bank of monitors. He massaged his temples as the monitors fired up. They were yoked so that, together, they were one, almost wall-sized monitor. He got on the internet and called up a map of the US, zooming in on Seattle. There wasn't much farther north to go unless he went to Canada, but that felt...wrong. Right. Turn right. He called up a map of Montana.

Nothing drew his attention, but then he looked for the northernmost cities. He saw it. A tiny town in the northeastern corner of Montana. _Outlook, Montana: population 47_. His head exploded and he sank to his knees, crying out.

_Outlook, Montana. Next to nowhere. Closer. _

* * *

Awakened by Chuck's cry, Sarah lept from the bed and ran to him. She cradled him in her arms. His eyes had rolled back. He had bitten his tongue. Flecks of pink saliva were in one corner of his mouth. He was shaking. _So this is a flash_. She hurt for him. _Oh, God, Chuck, what is the Intersect doing to you? I had no idea it was this bad._

Chuck opened his eyes and gave another cry, this one low and strangulated. He twisted from her embrace. "Put on some clothes, Sarah, please." In pain, he still managed to make what he said a request. He was on the floor, on his hands and knees. She thought she heard him mumble something, but she got up and did as he requested, quickly put on his shirt. _What's happening? _

He continued to mumble. She could finally make some of it out. "No, no, no. Wrong. Wrong! Not lying! The wrong woman." He sat back on his feet and held his head in his hands, rocking, going silent, seemingly lost in concentration. She had no idea what was going on. _Oh, Chuck!_

* * *

Bryce could not function physically, not yet, he could hardly move. He was weak, full of stitches, bruised and battered. It would be weeks before he reached his normal level, if ever. But he had to get to Burbank. Too much precious time had passed.

He had to find Chuck. That was the overriding imperative; that drove him from the hospital bed. He had been trying to leave as soon as he remembered what happened.

Painkillers allowed him to sit up in the car; even so, he gritted his teeth audibly. He had been looking out the window, but had turned, looked to the driver's seat. Jill Roberts looked back at him, concern on her face. She looked back at the road, her knuckles whitening as she readjusted her grip on the steering wheel.

All these years, and it was finally time.

* * *

End

of

_Book One: Inheritance_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

A/N: Chapter Twelve begins _Book Two: Fathers and Sons_. Hope to see you when it posts. Thanks for the reviews and PMs! Keep in touch. Let me know if you're looking forward to Book Two.

Chapter theme: Smithereens, _Behind the Wall of Sleep_


	14. Chapter 12: Mosaic

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

We're back. Book Two begins with bricolage. Prepping for action in multiple theaters of action.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

_**Book Two: Fathers and Sons**_

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

**Mosaic**

* * *

Saturday

* * *

Free, but hunted. Or, soon to be hunted.

No regrets.

Sarah Walker smoothly swung the car off the on-ramp and onto I-90E. They were on the way to Outlook, Montana. It would be a two-day drive. Chuck Bartowski was asleep in the seat beside her, still recovering from the aftershocks of his latest flash.

She took a deep breath. She had made changes, took an exit in her life from a road she never imagined leaving until recently. She had done it, left the low road of the Company for the high road of her present company.

Chuck.

She was not sure that Budapest or the daycare would have propelled her this far without the recreative impact of him. Those experiences had awakened her, shaken her, made her wonder about a different life. But Chuck took her from wondering to imagining, to...planning, although she was not quite ready to face that yet. She still was not sure how to understand it all, how to conceptualize his effect on her, but, conceptualized or not, its effect was real. A groundswell of epic proportions: a kind of _conversion experience_. Her world now not only seemed different, but it was different. Everything was changed, all in the twinkling of an eye.

She glanced at sleeping Chuck. No regrets.

She was now a rogue CIA agent - or she was dancing perilously close to being one. She probably had a few days, maybe more, maybe a week at most, before Graham would officially brand her as a rogue. She needed to figure out what was going on with Chuck, figure out this Intersect thing, soon. The flash had terrified her, coming as it did, when it did, with them both naked, with her still asleep. And Chuck had been...odd, a little...since the flash.

He worried her. It had taken him time to recover from the flash. He had muttered to himself for a long time, holding his head in his hands. In the sporadic intervals of silence, he often cocked his head as if he were listening to someone, but there was no one speaking. And even though she had put on his shirt, he kept his gaze from falling on her, averted it, looked elsewhere, anywhere else.

Eventually, he had looked at her, carefully and sheepishly, blushing for some reason, then he walked to her (she had seated herself on the side of the bed) and he knelt in front of her in apology. She reached out and rubbed his cheek softly, overcome by the rush of feeling he created in her. She tracked her thumb across his lips to stop his mumbled, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Chuck. I'm so sorry this has happened to you. I had no idea, even though you told me. Hearing about it was one thing, seeing it something else. Are you...Are you going to be okay?"

Chuck swallowed. "Yeah, yeah, sure. The flashes are bad...and their immediate after-effects, well, just try to ignore anything I say or do that seems...weird. I get...a little lost, I mean...I...I...well, I get a little lost. I say things I don't mean or..."

"You mean," she said softly, pulling his shirt toward him by slipping her thumb between two buttoned buttons, "like putting something on?" She felt bad asking, but she felt strange doing it putting it on. To be honest, the request had hurt her feelings, a little, though it had taken a moment for the hurt to register once Chuck had recovered.

She could see Chuck see that in her eyes. "Sarah, I am sorry. I was talking out of my head. To see you like that...naked, that's as close to a moment of pure grace as I am likely ever to get." His gaze was steady, intense. She felt herself blush, the hurt gone. "I meant nothing by it…"

She leaned forward and kissed him. "So, did your...flash?..." Chuck nodded at the word, "...point us in a direction?"

"Um...Yeah...Montana. Outlook, Montana." He was recovering some color and he gave her a weak grin.

"Huh. Never been."

"You're kidding? Your glamorous spy life never took you to _Outlook, Montana_?"

She punched his shoulder softly. "I've never had a 'glamorous spy life'. There's no such thing. Maybe there're occasional missions where I pretended to be glamorous or to belong among the glamorous set...but, well, you know, Chuck, why I was really there. Nothing glamorous about that."

His grin saddened. "But I am sure you looked beautiful, all gowned up."

"Thanks, Chuck, but if I did, I did not _feel _beautiful. And my 'beauty' was weaponized. No real glamour, Chuck. All fake. Fake glamour. All I ever did was fake things."

She saw his eyes darken for a split second. Then she saw his cheeks tug his grin back toward happy, an act of his will. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm beginning to understand that my extensive James Bond watching has not gifted me with insight into the...into the secret life of a spy."

Sara shrugged. "You've done a creditable job of being one since you ran from the Buy More."

Chuck's grin sank. "I guess I have...I wonder...Well, never mind." He took a moment and seemed to be debating with himself. "You said, '...point us in a direction'. Us. Are you coming with me?"

She gave him a level look. "Yes."

"But, Sarah, won't that mean you are disobeying your orders? I can't let you get into trouble because of me." He returned her level look.

"Chuck, I know we do and don't know each other. I know we have a lot to talk about and a...lot of problems to face. Last night started something for me - and so it also finished some things for me.

"And, contrary to your supposed James Bond 'glamorous life', my spy missions never actually involved sex," she glanced to the floor, "...only the false promise of it sometimes. And...and I had so many missions, I was so busy, focused, and so...closed...that my non-spy life, the little there was of it, rarely involved...that. I'm not a nun, but I never got into that habit, the one-night...things. That's Carina's calling, not mine."

_What did I call her? The Empress of Easy? But she was right. I was hoping to sleep with Chuck all along. Never wanted that so much before, so soon, with anyone. I hoped that meeting him in the Buy More would lead to...last night... _

He nodded, hanging on her words. Another brief darkness in his eyes. "Carina wanted..."

"I know she did, but you...resisted."

"She wasn't...the woman I wanted." He pinned his eyes to her, his meaning unmistakable, especially after his hunger for her last night. She had to look away, despite how good that look made her feel - and how heated.

"You're the man I want," she said quietly, still not quite looking at him, wet by the high tide of their words, his words and her own. "I want this to...work. I'm going to try to make it work, Chuck. I'll try to be...open to you. No secrets, no lies."

The third darkening of his eyes. "Right, right." His shoulders tensed as if he were bracing himself against himself. "I want this to work too. Don't doubt that, please. _I _believe you; _I _believe in you."

Sarah was not sure why he twice emphasized 'I', but she let it pass. "Can we figure this out?"

He nodded but the nod, convicted, seemed less convicted than his words. _Is he having second thoughts?_

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, then he kissed her. And the kiss pushed questions from her mind.

* * *

Ellie looked at the shadowy, but still recognizably female figure displayed on Morgan's phone. A chill déjà vu crept over her, a memory of Sarah in black, a mask in her hand.

"Well, Morgan...good job. I agree, a passing strange time to be out apartment hunting. She - whoever she is - was here for a reason. I'm not falling for this shit a second time."

She stood, fuming quietly. Morgan, frightened by her fuming, still ventured a question. "Anything from Sarah?"

"I think so - or maybe it was from Chuck. Another 'Knock, knock' ad in my spam. This time the subject line had emojis too, a smiley face and a heart. What do you think that means? At the end, there's a weird little blurb about new cellphones for sale..."

Morgan took her phone from her and read the email. "I guess it means he is okay. Happy, even. Chuck's not a subtext guy if you think about it."

"True, he wears his heart on his sleeve. But not normally in a subject line. Do you think it means…"

"That he is with Sarah, _with-with _her?"

"You said they had a moment. And the more I think about my phone conversation with her, the more I think I was talking to a woman with...feelings...for my brother. But how? They never met before the Buy More."

Morgan shook his head, a sneaky grin on his face. "No, you could see that on their faces before things went all _ka-boomy _and he ran. It was like they were both meeting someone who they had never met but who they had...I don't know..._dreamt about_. "

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Morgan, you really need to stop binging Disney channel…"

He grinned. "Deeper insight into human life there than on HBO or Netflix. Those shows may not be computer-generated cartoons but they have computer-generated plots. Soulless crap. I'll take _Lady and the Tramp _any day over the kid stuff on the other channels." He started humming _It's a Small World After All._

Ellie smacked the back of his head. "Morgan, I never know if you are an idiot or a savant."

He rubbed his head but the grin never left his face. "_Idiot Savant_? I bet the bit about the phone means that they don't want us to call or text Chuck's phone anymore. We'll have to wait for them to re-establish contact, probably on a burner phone.."

"'Re-establish contact'? 'Burner phone'? Who are you?"

"Hey, I own every issue of _Queen and Country. _Greg Rucka, man!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Morgan."

"No one ever does. Except for Chuck." Morgan's grin faded; he was silent and he rubbed at his eyes. " I hate that this is going on, Ellie. I miss him. It feels like he is worlds away."

Ellie nodded. "Me too, me too." She made herself smile and the smile slowly became genuine. "But take heart, Morgan: it's a small, small world. Chuck's tougher than anyone thinks. And if Sarah is with him, you know, _with-with _him, they'll be one hell of a team. I guess we have to trust her. I just want to hear Chuck's voice."

* * *

Sarah kept driving. She hoped Ellie got the email in her spam.

Chuck had told her it was the better way to contact Ellie, safer all around, and had shown her how to use the computer in the room to send another email from his fake account. He had gotten dressed as he told her how to do it.

Just before she sent it, she had added a smiley face and a heart emoji to the subject line. She had never used an emoji in her life, much less a heart, but the impulse had struck her and she did it.

She looked over at Chuck who was still asleep in the passenger seat. He had not wanted to meet with Ellie, even though Sarah thought the severity of his flash made it necessary. She had yielded to his arguments, but she was still not sure. They disabled his phone.

Still, Sarah needed to talk to Ellie, soon.

* * *

Zondra had an angle.

Eleanor's parking spot at the hospital was in a dark corner of the hospital parking deck, not in view of much of anything. Zondra could wait there in the shadows and force Ellie back into the car, then make her drive to the outskirts of the city. Careful leg work had revealed several isolated spots, not visible from the road. One of them would do.

Zondra would make sure it was quick, clean. No reason for the target to suffer. Her shift was due to start Saturday in the early afternoon. A few hours.

Zondra finished cleaning her gun again - the fifth or sixth time, she had lost count, cursing the slightly palsied shake in her hands. No time for nerves. It was showtime.

_Damn my hands. It'll have to be close range. No mistakes. _She pushed her hair away from her face and started cleaning her gun again.

* * *

Casey's legs were crossed and his eyes were crossing. Much longer and he would do something in a bed he could not remember having done since he was a very little boy.

He tried to breathe slow and focus on desert landscapes. Dry. Dessicated. Dusty. Parched. Arid. Dunes. He was recreating scenes from _Lawrence of Arabia _in his head when he heard Carina's door open and then shut.

He started to call out her name but clamped his lips shut. _Dammit. I won't give her the satisfaction! _But then he heard her turn the water on in the sink. It ran and kept running, water surging out of the tap, gushing to freedom. Water running. He imagined the whites of his eyes turning yellow. "Carina!"

She walked in, the water still running in the kitchen, a glass in her hand. She stood looking at him and took a long, slow sip. He pressed his knees together. She held out a key. Then, dangling it as she moved, she crossed to the other side of the bed, the one he was on.

Taking her time, she put the water down and then unlocked the cuffs. Casey sprang off the bed and into the bathroom, and soon tandem streams were running in different parts of the apartment, Casey's accompanied by an audible groan of relief.

He walked back into the bedroom a few minutes later to confront a smirking Carina. The kitchen faucet had been turned off. She looked him up and down. He knew how ridiculous he looked. She stood up and walked to him, giving him a quick kiss. "Sorry, John, but I had something to do, and I had to give the lovebirds a chance to fly the coop."

Casey pursed his lips. "Lovebirds? What? Wait, do you mean Walker and Bartowski? No." Carina nodded yes. "Hell, I should've guessed...but I didn't think it was possible for her. The dork melted the Ice Queen?"

Carina huffed a laugh. "Reduced her to a damp spot, saw it happen on the phone - bet it happened even faster in person."

Casey gave her a speculative look and a half-shrug. "Who' da thunk it?"

Again, Carina huffed a laugh. "Me, for one. In the past, when she thought no one was watching, she often got this look in her eyes. I don't know if she even realized it. Maybe she only did it when she wasn't watching either."

Casey grunted. "Well, it's good to know you're still not making sense, Carina. So, since I'm behind now anyway, how about catching me up." Casey reached out and put a hand on her waist, tugging her toward him. She pressed against him and kissed him again.

After a minute, she pushed him away. "I'm game, John. Those...boxers...were on my mind on my drive home. But first, you need to know something more about Chuck, and I need to know why you are targeting him - and you had better have something to say other than 'Orders'."

She stepped backward and sat down on the bed again, kicking off her shoes. "I just came from busting a villain named Smithers. I've been in deep cover as his fashion magazine girlfriend for months. It turned out he knew I was a DEA agent and planned bad things for me. Chuck saved me and then he gave me a remarkable plan for capturing Smithers and taking down his drug syndicate. It worked perfectly."

Casey shook his head. "What the hell is up with him? It's like he became a superspy overnight, found a covert genie in a bottle..."

Carina shrugged but then fastened her eyes to Casey's. "He also told me that the NSA knew my cover was blown and left me twisting in the wind, because Smithers had enlisted with Fulcrum…"

Casey jerked. "That can't be right." _But I found an NSA bug in her cover apartment. Dammit, Beckman, what the hell are you up to?_ Casey sat on the bed beside her. After a moment, he looked at her and made a request. "Tell me everything you are willing to about Smithers and about Chuck."

Carina looked at him, weighing her options. "I will tell you what he did for me, and about his plan, but nothing else. I like him, Casey, and the orders you have - and I know you, I am sure you have them - are...problematic. You can't do this."

Casey felt his stomach lurch. _Dammit._

* * *

Brown was in his sweater, sitting in Graham's freezing office. Graham was staring at him. "So, what is the status of Walker's hunt for the Intersect, for Bartowski. I have had other matters I had to attend to; catch me up."

Brown rubbed his palm against his cane's handle. "Bartowski has proven...surprising. He escaped from Agent Walker in Seattle and she went after him, but I have had no contact from her for a while." Brown paused and Graham nodded.

"Of course, that's not unusual with Walker, as you know, sir. She often has _carte blanche _in the field. Those are your own orders so I have given her a long leash. I'm betting she gets her man. Give her time; she's your best."

Graham gave Brown an uninterpretable look, perhaps an objection to Brown's phrasing, but said nothing for a moment. "I have been patient with her. Maybe too patient. But I _need_ results. I am worried that Agent Walker's heart isn't in this…" He tapped his fingers on his desk and closed his eyes.

Brown took the moment to shift in his seat. _I am sure Walker's heart _is _in this._

"I have mobilized another agent, Brown, and I may add her to this chase. She is not targeting Chuck Bartowski. But if she succeeds on the mission I have assigned her, I will next send her after him. Walker will get him or the other agent will. I want any communication from Walker put through to me immediately. No buffer. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Brown used the handle of his cane to help himself stand. He limped out of the office. Graham's assistant gave him a perfunctory nod and went back to her work. Brown limped on. _Another agent? What's that agent's mission? What's Graham doing? _

Brown kept thinking as he limped along. He was not sure why he was taking these chances, deleting videos, not speaking his full mind. And then he felt the cane handle in his hand and he knew. It was because of his father, dead now a few months. The death had rocked him and their final conversation had been in his mind, at least implicitly, for the last several days.

"Are you people in Langley part of the cure, son, or just more of the disease?"

_I don't know anymore. I miss you, Dad._

A few minutes later, Brown was back in his workroom, seated at his computer, his cane hooked on the arm of his desk chair, sweater across its back. Graham's private line was supposed to be clean, and Graham believed it was. But Brown knew better. Nothing in Langley was clean. Everything was being recorded, somewhere in the bowels of vast Homeland Security listening stations. The question was whether anyone was listening or could find the record. Brown could. He was the best at what he did. He was master of e-mazes, electronic sewers. He typed quickly, searching, digging. Digging. A few minutes later he listened to the call.

* * *

Sarah pulled off I-90E and took a side road. Chuck had awakened and was blinking beside her. He had looked for her, and then at her, as soon as his eyes had opened. Then he reached for her hand. She gave it to him and felt better than she had in a couple of hours. Just his touch…

"Where are we, Sarah?"

"Back road. I thought we'd find a store or something, grab some supplies and maybe something to eat. We can find a spot and eat outside. It's still cool but the sun's bright. Sound okay?"

"Great, I need to stretch my legs." He turned from her to look out his window and as soon as his eyes left her, he let go of her hand. In response, she took his in hers and he turned and gave her a puzzled look, then he smiled and looked down at their hands. "Maybe we can talk? I think we need to talk."

Sarah nodded. A store was just ahead.

* * *

Morgan had been staring at the picture on his phone, the back of the woman outside the apartment. The more he stared at it, the more freaked out he became. He knew Ellie had an afternoon shift. It was not too far. He had just clocked out at the Buy More.

Outside, perched on his bike after unchaining it, he started pedaling toward the hospital. He had a bad feeling, and it was not the burning in his legs or the stitch in his side.

He was worried. A storm had been gathering since Chuck's birthday party, and Morgan had a gut feeling it was about to break. He pedaled faster.

* * *

Zondra stepped back into the shadows. The target should arrive at any moment.

The target. She had a name and Zondra knew it. But she did not want to think about it, or about the target's brother or boyfriend or that she seemed to have done nothing wrong - at least nothing Zondra had been told, nothing she had discovered. _Was this the kind of thing Walker did routinely? _

Even when they had still been friends, Sarah shared nothing about her life with Zondra. When the CATs were together, Sarah would simply disappear for a day, two days, a week, then return. No explanation but always with more ghosts in her eyes, another degree cooler. _Shit, stop, Zondra. One trigger pull and this ends and you move up, move on. It will get easier. _She put her hand on the gun beneath her thin black jacket. She tried to breathe steadily. She heard a car.

* * *

Chuck was seated across from Sarah at a picnic table. The table was under a shelter on the edge of a small rest area that seemed to have been forgotten. The grass was long, the trash cans full, the ground littered with cigarette butts and crushed beer cans. But Chuck was looking at Sarah and the park seemed the most beautiful place he had ever been.

He could tell she was still unsettled from the flash; so was he. He could not seem to get himself entirely into focus even after his dad's voice had gone metallic and then silent. He had kept from looking at Sarah, asked her to put something on, so that his dad would not see her. His dad had been screaming in Chuck's head, telling him that he was a mark and would never be anything but a mark. That she had no feelings for him. That the sex meant nothing to her. Chuck had fought back, told his dad it was not so, that his dad was confusing mom and Sarah. But his dad was not to be appeased, reasoned with. His feelings of misery and rage and fear surged in Chuck's breast, targeting Sarah.

He hated that he had lied to her after the flash, or at least omitted to tell the truth.

He wanted to tell her, to explain it all, even if she thought he was crazy. But he could not seem to get his mouth to confess it. He felt like a part-time ventriloquist's dummy.

Sarah handed Chuck a sandwich and began to eat hers. She seemed content to wait for him to start the talk.

"Is my dad dead, Sarah?"

Sarah looked surprised by the question. Her voice in answer was soft. "I don't know, Chuck. Graham never told me whether he was alive or dead; he only told me Orion was the creator of the Intersect. Is that true, Chuck?"

Chuck nodded. "Yes, in fact, that is how he met my mom. She was a CIA agent, assigned as his...handler?..." - Sarah nodded at the word but seemed surprised by the fact - "...and she was assigned because of the Intersect."

"Wow, Chuck. So, you had a spy in the family? And their situation sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Chuck gave her a quick, frowning smile. "Um, yeah, although I'm not going to launch into a rousing version of _I Want a Girl (Just Like the Girl That Married Dear Old Dad)_. Not that I am unhappy about...my spy," he glanced at Sarah, "I just...well, I realized that mom was a spy only after you and I met at the Buy More…"

He wanted to tell her about it, how it really happened, his dad, but his tongue was lead. He could only manage to talk around the truth. "I found a file on her when I was in the Tarzana basement. Her code name was _Frost._"

Sarah stopped chewing and stared at Chuck.

* * *

Ellie's mind was racing. Chuck, Sarah, soldier guy, the woman in the dark. Bryce Larkin.

Spies all around her, all around Chuck. Encircled by spies, spinning around in crazy orbits. _Why? What could have made Larkin send whatever he sent to Chuck? What's at the center of this?_

Ellie swept into her parking space automatically, not thinking about it or really even looking around. She started to get out of the car when a woman stepped out of the shadows. A gun was pointed at Ellie's head.

"Get back in the car, and do exactly as I say."

* * *

A/N: Patterns and sub-patterns, patterns and sub-patterns. Some of the sub-patterns are getting clearer. This has all been constructed deliberately and has to be read accordingly.

Let me hear from you, especially if you are hoping for another early week post. Last week was busy for me, students, students, students. I am still behind on responses to reviews and PMs. Hope to catch up soon. Thanks!


	15. Chapter 13: Heaven's on Fire

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_She had done it, left the low road of the Company for the high road of her present company.'"_

"_All fake. Fake glamour. All I ever did was fake things."_

"_No secrets, no lies."_

"_But take heart, Morgan: it's a small, small world. Chuck's tougher than anyone thinks. And if Sarah is with him, you know, with-with him, they will be one hell of a team."_

"_What the hell is up with him? It's like he became a superspy overnight, found a covert genie in a bottle..."_

"_A gun was pointed at Ellie's head. 'Get back in the car, and do exactly as I say.'"_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**Heaven's on Fire**

* * *

Saturday

* * *

Morgan whizzed past the hospital, and he angled the handlebars of his bike toward the parking deck.

His years-long obsession with Ellie had one good effect: he knew her routine in a...slightly stalkerish...way. He knew exactly where she parked. He knew she normally arrived about five-to-seven minutes before she was supposed to start work. He knew..._anyway_, a lot.

He Lance-Armstronged into the dark mouth of the deck, pedaling for all he was worth, despite the fact that he was corkscrewing down the ramp. His feeling of impending doom thickened, grew heavier, his lungs burnt and he could no longer feel his legs.

* * *

Ellie retreated into the driver's seat of the car, her hands up though that had not been part of the order. The door was open and the woman with the gun, dark-haired, dark-eyed, stared hard at Ellie. The woman's gaze flickered, softened for a second, then hardened immediately.

"Who are you? What do you want? Are you working with Sarah Walker?"

* * *

Zondra was not irresolute. She was not. _Am. Not._ _Irresolute._ She could do this, shoot this woman in cold blood, with due premeditation. It was what an Enforcer did, and she aspired to the title. She wanted it _but._..No, she _wanted_ it. She could do _it_.

The target spoke. _Sarah Walker? How can she know Sarah Walker? _Zondra lost focus.

* * *

Morgan banked crazily around the final turn, no longer pedaling but coasting at high speed, dragging one foot for balance. His eyes were watering from speed and anxiety. He saw Ellie's car. A woman beside it with a gun. That woman. Photograph. He aimed the bike at her and sailed soundlessly across the pavement, a cheap ten-speed kamikaze.

The bike crashed into the woman and the door and Morgan catapulted forward, slamming into the woman's shoulders milliseconds after his bike battering-rammed her lower body. He heard Ellie shout his name just before his world blacked out.

* * *

"Morgan!"

He came from nowhere - on his bike. He crunched violently into the woman and they fell together, atop the ten-speed, a tangle of motionless arms and legs and of spinning spokes.

Ellie slid herself forward, reaching out to Morgan. He was bleeding from his mouth and his nose. As she reached for Morgan, she saw the woman's eyes open again, spinning in disorientation. Ellie got out and grabbed Morgan's shirt collar, disentangling him from the woman and the bike.

"Morgan!" He did not respond.

"Don't move!"

Ellie whipped her head around. The woman was standing, her gun out but unsteady. Ellie's practiced doctor's glance told her the woman's shoulder was hurt, maybe dislocated, and she was favoring her left leg. But she was up, oriented, and she had the gun out. A tiny part of Ellie was impressed, but all the rest of her was terrified.

The woolly silence was torn by the screech of tires. Ellie whipped her head away from the woman. A car braked, spun tail lights around headlights. The driver of the car, a woman, stuck her arm out of the car window and there was a shattering crack of gunfire. The first woman spun and went down, landing on the bike again.

"Get in the car if you want to live," The second woman shouted. Ellie was frozen, her hand still twisted in Morgan's collar.

"Jill? Jill Robertson?"

There was a man in the car too, in the passenger seat, but Ellie could not see his face. She yanked Morgan to the car, opened the door and shoved him partway inside. With another shove, she had him in and she jumped in too. She slammed the door, looking back at the other woman, splayed out on the bike like a bizarre spinning bed.

"Go!" The man gave the order. The car jumped forward and Ellie looked at the speaker.

_Bryce Larkin. _

_Bryce and Jill._

Ellie shook her head violently, hoping for clarity. She had a swamping sense of dislocation, a perverse conviction that she was awake in a nightmare being dreamt by her brother.

_Chuck!_

* * *

Chuck looked at Sarah. "What?"

"Frost? I know that code name. When I was at the Farm, there were a couple of long-time instructors who talked about her. Kept comparing me to her. She had a lot of records in the place, still, high scores for a female trainee. A legend kept alive in Farm memory. Not just on paper. I guess I broke a lot of her records…I think 'The Ice Queen' was partly a result of the talk of me and Frost." Sarah slowed as she finished her comment, looking back at Chuck.

Chuck felt like he had swallowed an ice cube. He felt his hands leave hers, a withdrawal into chill self-righteousness. She refocused her blue eyes, trying to understand, registering the shift in the atmosphere. Chuck ducked his head for a second to focus and the chill feeling passed.

"What's going on, Chuck. There's something going on…"

Chuck swallowed hard prepared to speak but no words would come. Not of the right sort. "Sorry, Sarah, I just can't seem to shake the effects of that flash. It's like late aftershocks, ripples…" _That's true, but I can't make myself tell her the truth. What is wrong with me? _It was like certain thoughts erased his mouth. Rendered him silent.

_Sound, please!_

Nothing.

Sarah gave him a small frown and her face pinched in worry. "Okay, but tell me if something's going on, if something's wrong." She made him meet her eyes and he nodded.

She took a deep breath. "So, I never met your mom, Chuck, but I know...knew of her. No one seems to know what happened to her. The Farm legend is that she was in deep cover and never re-surfaced. Some of the instructors claimed she had gone rogue, some said she quit, walked away...and, Chuck, I'm sorry, but most believed she was dead." Sarah reached out for Chuck's hand and took it in hers, squeezing it softly.

The word 'dead' was not a shock. Chuck had himself believed...even hoped now and then...both his parents were dead. It was more comforting to believe they could not return to him than that they would not return. But belief was not knowledge - and although Sarah was repeating the beliefs of others, it struck Chuck as knowledge. _Mom's dead_. His dad probably dead too, despite the Intersected ghost haunting Chuck's mind.

Chuck felt his eyes sting, then water. He sobbed. Sarah got up and came around the table. She sat down next to him and opened her arms to him and he put his around her and they held each silently. Chuck thought it might have hurt less if he had not been dreaming of her, alive. So alive and so unhappy.

Mom.

If he hadn't remembered her...

_Mary!_

Unhappy, times two.

* * *

Ellie adjusted herself in the rear seat and looked in continued disbelief to the front seat, Jill left, Bryce right. "When did the Hellmouth vomit you two up?"

Jill glanced at Ellie in the rearview mirror. Ellie saw her hand her gun to Bryce and steer the car up the corkscrew ramp. Jill's eyes were shrouded, cool. "Hey, Ellie. Long time, no see."

"Fuck you, Jill. Fuck you, Bryce." Ellie glared at one then the other. "And I'm guessing you are still fucking each other?"

Bryce twisted in his seat slowly, the effort causing him obvious pain. Before Ellie had time to think about that, react, he jabbed a needle into her leg. He groaned with the effort, she groaned in dismayed, disgusted shock. In seconds, she slumped onto Morgan, her hair in his blood.

* * *

Beckman was at home, in her study. Alone. She took out her personal phone and found the encrypted file. She went through the steps to open it. The pictures displayed as she swiped them with her thumb. What had she been thinking? This was a male weakness, a silly season for them midway between mother and Maker. _Diane, you old fool. Old enough to know better. You knew it was not real._ _Knew it._ But she chose to try to believe it. Three months of madness the shipwreck of a life of professionalism, of achievement against the odds.

_I suppose I thought I was in love and that he was too. I was tired of being alone. Tired of feeling old. Tired of the eternal maybes between Roan and me. Ready for something new, someone new. _She closed the file and looked around her study even though she knew she was alone.

She dialed Roan Montgomery's number. She had not talked to him for a long time. She was not sure he would take her call. She closed her eyes as the phone rang and rang. Expected. He could not know what she had done - but he must suspect.

As the phone rang, she wondered how Casey was faring. She had not heard from him for a while.

She ended the call with no answer from Roan. Her phone beeped. For a second, she thought Roan was returning her call. No, it was a text in code. More demands. _Diane, you old fool. _

* * *

Casey had his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Carina was asleep beside him.

They had worn each other out after their talk. Casey did not look at her but he was thinking about her. He liked her, more than she knew and more than he was willing to admit to anyone, including himself. He knew her, though, knew her life and knew his.

It would never work. She was as incapable of monogamy as he was meaningful dialogue. She traveled from bed to bed. He grunted instead of speaking. But he could enjoy her beside him, the feeling of having been with her; he could enjoy her bewitching perfume.

Her scent was on him and it lingered on the bedclothes, an atmosphere, Casey the atmosphere inhaler. For a moment, he thought about getting up and trying to steal a bottle of her perfume, if he could find it. For the road. For long nights. For lonely. He closed his eyes. _Idiot. Think about something else, anything else._

Beckman.

Beckman was up to something. What Bartowski had told Carina had proven right. Bartowski had saved Carina and then saved her mission. Walker was, evidently, somehow smitten with the kid. Talk about zero to hero. And that grey suit...Casey envied that a little. He had to chase them but he did not have to catch them. He would call Beckman in the morning.

He opened his eyes, lifted his head and unclasped his hands. He reached over and lifted the sheet up, covering Carina's bare, lightly freckled shoulder. He breathed her in and looked at her face. She was beautiful even when she smirked. She was even more beautiful now. He closed his eyes.

She was not for him. He was for no one.

* * *

Zondra inhaled, gulping oxygen as if she had surfaced from underwater.

She bitterly regretted it. The vest beneath her shirt kept the shot from killing her, but the force of the shot had damaged her ribs. _Damn. _Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up, fitting her hands between the spokes of the bike, its front wheel badly mangled. "Shit!", she yelped, involuntarily. _My shoulder!_

Luckily, no one was around. Ellie's car door was still open. The interior light shone. Carefully, painfully, Zondra finally freed herself from the bearded missile's bike. _Who the hell was that? _

Holding her arm close to her side, she stood. Her legs were cut and bruised, but she could move them.

She stumbled to Ellie's door and shut it. She bent down and picked up her gun, wheezing and cursing, silently, as she did so. She needed to get back to her car and figure out what to do about this mess.

_Who was the biker - and who was the bitch who shot me?_

_Did Walker ever have days like this?_

* * *

Sarah felt Chuck pull back from their embrace. He gave her a quick kiss, then wiped at his eyes. "Thanks, Sarah. We should probably get going."

He headed for the car. Sarah got up, gathering their trash and left-overs. She threw the first away and put the second in a plastic bag. Chuck got in the car and sat, staring out the front. For a moment, his posture seemed wrong to Sarah; she thought maybe he was hurt. He was hunched; Sarah had not seen him like that. He looked like someone else. He did not look like himself. _Grief, maybe_. She hated to tell him what she told him about his mom, but she had promised herself - no secrets, no lies: she was going to tell him the truth. She knew she would have to tell him as soon as he said 'Frost'.

Sarah wondered if she were like Frost in some deep sense or if they were simply both good at Farm drills. She hoped they were not the same. They had made a similar choice but Frost had turned her back on that choice - at least that was the story. Chuck knew that part of it. Sarah meant what she thought earlier: _no regrets_. She was not going to turn her back on her choice, even if she had little idea where it would lead her.

Chuck had called her 'my spy'. That warmed her heart and she got back in the driver's seat repeating it to herself.

* * *

A few miles down the road, Chuck fell asleep again.

He was at the Zoo. Barcelona. His dad was at the Zoo. The two men climbed the steps up to the Dolphin exhibit. Stephen slowed down, not wanting to seem like he was following them. He started up the steps, his right hand running along the blue railing. At the top of the stairs, he stepped onto the audience platform with a railing. Below it, in an amoeba-shaped pool, two pairs of dolphins swam around and around. The two men were there, looking around, obviously perplexed at not finding someone there. Mary. Stephen walked casually to the rail and leaned against it, watching the dolphins as they rose from the water when they recognized a handler coming toward them. Stephen looked down at his feet and saw a couple of identical business cards. They were pressed against the edge of the platform. They had not simply fallen.

The two men headed out and down the stairs. Stephen bent and picked up the cards. _Gran Hotel Reymar. Tossa de Mar. _Stephen knew of the city, a small, sleepy beach resort on the Costa Brava. Where Ava Gardner filmed _Pandora and the Flying Dutchman. _He turned over one card. In one corner was penciled: _7 pm_. He turned over the other. In one corner was penciled: _Tomorrow. Danger. _He put the cards in his pocket and headed out of the Zoo.

He was headed to the Mediterranean coast. Thank God she had left him a note. She must have known she was in trouble. But what trouble, and with whom?

* * *

Ellie woke in the dark. Not dark like her room with Devon in the apartment. Dark. No light. She held her hand in front of her face but had no visual confirmation that it was there. Her eyes were open but there was no light. After a moment, she remembered Bryce injecting her with something. _Utter asshole. _And Jill. Jill Roberts. Bryce Larkin. Together. She ground her teeth together.

And then she heard a moan, but not one of her own. _Morgan._

"Morgan, is that you?"

"No, it's my mortal remains. Morgan is harp playing aboard some cushy cloud up above."

Ellie felt her way toward the voice. Then felt Morgan's leg. "Is that you, Morgan?"

"Not all of me."

"Morgan…"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Are you okay?"

"Not sure. I ache all over. I have a Jabba headache."

"What?"

"Hut-sized."

"If your head wasn't hurting, I'd slap it."

Morgan chuckled but a little unevenly. "I guess you are okay too?"

"Yeah, groggy. But okay."

She felt Morgan move, then hiss. "Ouch. Where are we?"

Ellie sighed. "I have no idea. I'm pretty sure we are now part of whatever Chuck and Sarah are part of."

"Gah. But you're a doctor and I'm...I'm...a Morgan."

"I know. It'll have to be enough."

Another uneven chuckle. "Ow. Ow. I'll be okay. So, how did we get here?"

"What do you remember?"

Silence. "I remember pedaling. Then hurtling into the woman...with the...gun. Jesus! Did I do that?"

"Yeah, Morgan, you did. And when I can see you, I'm going to kiss you for it."

"For real?"

"In thanks, Morgan; not romantically. But, yes, for real."

His voice brightened. "Then we need some lights,"

She heard him mutter and then…

"Behold, there was light, in a universe far, far away!" Morgan had lit a Zippo lighter and the flame flickered between them. Ellie reached out and moved the lighter to the side, then she kissed Morgan soundly but not romantically on the lips, ignoring the dried blood on his face.

He lit up and they could have done without the lighter. "Thanks, Ellie." Silence. "But that still doesn't explain how we got here."

"No, it doesn't. We got here because after you bike-slammed that woman with the gun, a car whipped around, its tires squealing, and the driver shot the woman."

"Whoa...No way! Who was the driver?"

"Jill Roberts."

"STFU!"

"Huh?"

"No way!"

"You already said that. Yes, Jill. She shot the woman. Killed her, I think. Bryce Larkin was in the passenger seat."

Silence. Silence. "Bryce and Jill. Is he still sexing her up?"

Ellie shrugged in the dancing Zippo light. "No idea. But probably. It's the way this whole crazy thing almost had to go. He jabbed me with a syringe and I passed out. Mark my words, Morgan. If I get a chance, I will separate that man from his bb pellet balls."

"I'd rather you didn't do that." Bryce's voice, tinny but amplified, filled the room. "I need conversation from you, Ellie, not castration."

A door opened in the wall and Jill entered along with light, overwhelming the Zippo. She was carrying a tray with food and water on it.

* * *

Chuck was still dreaming.

Light. Impossible sunlight.

He got off the bus...Stephen got off the bus in Tossa de Mar. He exited near the beach. No one had followed him and no one seemed to take notice of his arrival. He looked around slowly.

Off to his right, up in the hillside, were the walled medieval ruins of Vila Vella. The city spread itself around, in a half-bowl configuration from there back toward Stephen, as he stood near a hut for boat rentals - the bowl's bottom. It spread on around him, to his left, and up another hill. He knew that atop it was the Gran Hotel Reymar. The beach, a deep, sandy brown, ran out in front of him to the impossibly blue water...a blue the color of Sarah's eyes….A deep blue, so blue, bejeweled, translucent. Out in the water, off the beach, were boats of every size and color, and two small rocky islands, over one of which flew the Spanish flag. Stephen thought of scenes from _To Catch a Thief_. He was in a smaller, alternative version of the Riviera.

Stephen considered the rows of shops and restaurants that encircled the beach. Then he started up the hill toward the hotel. The street was crowded, men in trunks, women in bikinis, small children following along. He passed the statue of Minerva, standing tall, holding a pike and looking impassively out at the sea, as if it were incapable of changing her mind about anything.

He climbed a small set of stairs and stopped at the top, next to a stair-stepped white wall. The white of the wall in the evening sunset was still startling, the Mediterranean sun colorless as always, lighting without discoloring. Stephen thought of a passage from Aristotle: "Light is the actuality of that which is transparent." Aristotle must have written that standing in sunlight much like the sunlight in which Stephen stood. Everything around him seemed somehow more than three-dimensional, more real than real, every object fit for an eternal gaze. He looked up at the glass-enclosed hotel. Sighing, he climbed on.

He walked the last few meters and went in the glass doors. The marble floors gleamed. He could see the sea in almost every direction. He crossed to the small reception desk next to a low marble staircase.

The woman at the desk, tall, thin and bespectacled, gave him a professional smile. "May I help you?"

"You knew I am American?"

She ignored the graceless answer. "I recognized you. I was told to give you this." She handed Stephen a plain white envelope. It was not sealed. He opened it to find a room key. _425_. "She told me to tell you she is waiting."

Stephen turned and climbed the steps. He stopped and took a breath. Maybe they would be able to talk at last.

The thought excited and terrified him. He could not think of her without desire and pain.

_Heaven on fire_.

* * *

A/N: These two chapters, although not titled as such, are the prelude of Book Two. The story settles down and chapters will lengthen as we go on. Let me hear from you, please. Squeezing time for this into my schedule is difficult, and only worth it if I know folks are enjoying it.

Hope to see you Friday.

Chapter Theme: _Heaven's on Fire, _Radio Dept.

My apartment in Barcelona has a bizarre motto above the couch that includes the words: "A sofa is the best viewpoint with beautiful views all around you. Atmosphere inhaler." Don't understand it but wanted to find a way to get that last phrase into this story, in which olfactory experience plays an important role. Atmosphere inhaler.


	16. Chapter 14: Climb

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_Ellie shook her head violently, hoping for clarity. She had a swamping sense of dislocation, a perverse conviction that she was awake in a nightmare being dreamt by her brother._

_Sarah was not going to turn her back on her choice, even if she had little idea where it would lead her._

"_I'm pretty sure we are now part of whatever Chuck and Sarah are part of."_

_Stephen turned and climbed the steps. He stopped and took a breath. Maybe they would be able to talk at last._

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**Climb**

* * *

Saturday evening

* * *

Chuck. Still sleeping, dreaming, climbing. Climbing.

Stephen ascended the stairs toward the fourth floor. He turned on the fourth-floor landing and, noting the signs, headed to the left, down the hall. He passed several doors until he arrived at _425\. _Squaring up with the door, he knocked. The door swung open an inch or so; it was off the latch. Just as a passage of Aristotle had come to him earlier, now a passage of St. John of the Cross did, a verse he had read to Mary when they were still handler and asset, one they both came to love.

_Full of hope I climbed the day  
While hunting the game of love,  
And soared so high, so high above  
__That at last I caught my prey._

Those had been heady days. He had been so full of hope. So had she.

"Stephen?" Mary's voice, loud enough to be heard but not loud.

"Yes." He pushed open the door. The room was lovely, dark brown and tan and white, somehow spartan and plush all at once. He could not see her, only the end of the bed, the desk and the lamp on it, the chair pushed beneath it. He walked in and stopped at the foot of the bed.

Mary was looking at him. She was propped on a pillow but not seated. Lounging. She had her gun in her hand, but it was resting on the thin white sheet that covered her.

Stephen's eyes swept the length of her beneath the covers, the familiar, maddening curves of her. Her shoulders were bare and, he could tell, so was the rest of her. She carefully put her gun on the nightstand then pushed herself into a full, seated position. The sheet fell, revealing her to the waist. Stephen gasped involuntarily. She gave him a sad half-smile and turned the rest of the sheet back…

Chuck woke up. He heard himself gasp.

* * *

When she heard the gasp, Sarah glanced away from the road toward Chuck.

As he had a few times since she first saw him at MoPop, he looked at her as if he did not know her, or knew her to be someone else. She could not make sense of it - her best guess was that it was some residue or the Intersect dreams he mentioned.

But, as before, his vision seemed to clear and then she knew he knew her, knew her to be the woman he was looking at. He blushed furiously, and Sarah felt immediately self-conscious, her hand moving involuntarily to the front of her shirt, checking its buttons. "What?"

Chuck looked about as sheepish as a human being could manage without shifting biological categories altogether. "Nothing." He turned to look out at the road.

"Chuck, I've had you on my mind and my heart for...a while; we've slept together; I've been paying attention. I want to know you, all of you, all about you. What just happened? Was it another Intersect dream?"

He nodded, still studying the lines on the road.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

He shook his head, his blush, faded momentarily, returned. "It's nothing. The...Intersect plagues my sleep."

"We need to get in touch with Ellie tonight, Chuck. She's a doctor and of exactly the right sort. We need to know more about what that...thing...is doing to you, physically and psychologically. And Chuck, I am _here_ \- on the road with you to Outlook, Montana. I've made my choice. Last night, in bed. All in, Chuck. Help me understand what I have chosen, please. Nothing you tell me will cause me to leave."

* * *

_But it will. It will cause you to leave me. Abandon me. That bed above the Mediterranean in Tossa de Mar. It changed nothing. Her bed is a lie. Another spy tool, like the gun on the nightstand. _

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut and sat up straighter in his seat. "Sorry, Sarah. It's hard to talk about...what I dream. Give me a little time to work it out. I'm still trying to understand it all." He turned his eyes to her, plaintive.

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Okay, but do talk to me. Do you need to sleep more?"

Chuck's headshake was decisive and Sarah went on. "Then I want to tell you something, Chuck. Something about me. Does the Intersect have information on how I became an agent?"

"No, it starts with your paperwork from the Farm."

Chuck remembered the paperwork, the admittance papers as well as the evaluations by her instructors. She had been a star, her written evaluations glowed - at least in terms of her performance. But her instructors did not seem to have any sense of her as a person. 'Evasive', 'closed', 'impassive', 'attentive but withdrawn', 'loner'; one even went so far as to wonder about how someone with a skill set so impressive could still seem less-than-fully committed to the life of the skill set. That had struck Chuck at the time and it struck him more forcibly now.

Yet, nowhere among the papers was there any induction paperwork, any indication of how she was recruited. It was as if she had been beamed into the Farm from outer space.

"I did not exactly volunteer, Chuck. But I was not exactly forced into it either…"

_Lies. _Chuck forced himself to concentrate. "What's that mean exactly?"

Sarah gave him a melancholy grin. "'Necessity includes free choice', I guess."

Chuck furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

"A line I had to translate in a language class once. I thought then it applied to me. I mean that I did choose. No one put a gun to my head. Sorry about that image. But my choice was constrained. I was still a minor - seventeen - and I had nowhere to go, no skills to live by except the ones my father taught me, and I didn't want to have them or use them."

"Your father? What skills?"

Sarah stared at the road more intently, as if unwilling to see his reaction to her words. "Lying, mostly." He saw her swallow and take a breath. "My dad was a confidence man. A con artist. He trained his daughter to inherit and run the family business. He said I was an even better liar than him; he was proud of that, actually."

Chuck nodded, his chest tightening. "Were you - better than him?"

"Maybe. Oddly enough, I probably was when I was younger. At first, I thought it was all just make-believe. Mud pies with words, you know?" She finally glanced at him for a split second. "And I was good at it then. I couldn't see the harm. It was a game and he was so proud when I played it well. But I got older, understood more. He knew and he tried to sell me on a new conception of what we were doing. Robin Hood, basically. I knew that was a lie from the start even though my dad, Jack - that's his name, Jack - even if he had conned himself into half-believing it.

"My dad thinks his greatest skill is reading people, he's good at it, he taught me that too, but I think his greatest skill is bullshitting himself, believing his own bunkum. Half-believing it, anyway. But I didn't even half-believe. I knew it for what it was but I kept doing the cons, because...because he was my dad and I didn't see any other choice."

She stopped, almost out of breath.

Chuck did not speak but he returned her earlier gesture: he put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed it softly with his thumb.

_She's a liar. A con. A spy, it's all she is. She admits it. -Then she's not a liar. -She's lying when she admits she's a liar. -What's that mean? -Every truth she tells is embedded in an embracing lie: non-logical falsehood. She tells the truth but with ulterior motives. -We all do. -It's all she does. _

Chuck moved his hand back to his lap.

"You did it because you loved him," Chuck offered, pushing back against the impulse that moved his hand.

She nodded, smiled thankfully. She turned back to the road. "Oh, look!" She gestured at a billboard. "A store. _Tractor Supply. _Huh. Just off the highway hear near Missoula, a few miles. It's getting colder, Chuck, we could use some different clothes. Besides, I don't think that grey suit, as much as I like it, and as...distracting as I find it...is going to mix well with the folks in Outlook."

Chuck brightened, his thoughts changing course. He smiled at her. "I thought maybe I could pull off that whole Roger Thornhill running-in-the-cornfield thing, you know, dodging the crop-dusting plane. What a great scene..."

Sarah laughed softly. "I've never seen the movie, but I can imagine. Isn't there a blonde in that film? I have seen posters." _Yours, in your room, Chuck._

"Yes, Eva Marie Saint. Although she has now moved down on my list of all-time blondes."

Sarah looked at him. "Why?"

"New number one - with a bullet." He nodded at her as he spoke, pinning her with his eyes.

She blushed, the reddening obviously hers despite the setting sun. Chuck continued. "There's a great line in that movie. They're on the train together and they are...seducing...each other. She, Eve Kendall, says something like 'I'm a big girl', and Roger, Cary Grant, says, 'Yeah, and in all the right places too.'"

Sarah laughed softly, then pinned him with her eyes. "Me too, Chuck, and I will remind you of it as soon as we find a place for the night." Her stare intensified, smoldered, a challenge and invitation. "_All_ the right places."

Chuck further loosened his tie with a finger, his inner wrangle now mercifully silent, the only sound his rushing pulse.

But his desire for Sarah came with a faint chaser of pain.

* * *

Brown opened a line on the connection. He listened to Zondra Rizzo report to Graham.

The dominant tone of apology and regret did not completely hide an undertone of relief. She detailed her efforts to carry out her Red Test, and the rather spectacular way it went wrong. Graham was, for Graham, restrained. His annoyance was undeniable, but he kept himself controlled.

Zondra was uploading security video from the hospital parking lot. One reason it had taken her time to call was that she had to convince the attendant that she was a law enforcement officer. It turned out that the hospital's security was on a closed circuit: it could not be accessed via the Internet, not even through a battery of passwords and checks. Zondra had gotten him to upload the video, then she had used a twilight dart to send him into unconsciousness while she erased what had been uploaded.

Brown watched the video as Graham did. Luckily, he kept himself from swearing aloud. Graham, however, did not.

"Wait. Who is that with the woman in the car. Stop it there. Goddamit. Bryce Larkin. They told me he was dead, atomized in the explosion of Orion's lab. I'm going to have to start combing through rubble with my own hands. Agent, did you get a good look at the man in real time?"

"No, sir. It all happened so fast. I did see the woman. Straight brown hair, glasses. Attractive, I guess. But the man, no. I mean I didn't get a good look. But I agree. It does look like Agent Larkin in the video. I have met him in person."

Brown felt like there was a story there but Graham was not interested. "I will send this footage to my analysts. I need to know who that woman is. I need to know what Larkin is doing. So, he takes the Bartowski woman and the small bearded man, and leaves?"

"Yes, sir, as you can see. Eleanor puts the bearded man in the car. I don't know that Larkin and the woman wanted him. But they wanted her."

Graham fell quiet, thinking. "If he wants her, then we want her. I am rescinding your order to terminate Eleanor Bartowski. For now. I trust that you were going to do your job, but events prevented it. The will, in this case, is as good as the deed. Find Eleanor Bartowski and her bearded sidekick, Agent."

"Yes, sir, I will. One other thing, if I may. Eleanor asked me if I knew _Sarah Walker_. Why would she know that name?"

"I don't know," Graham replied. "But be on your guard with the Bartowski woman. She may be involved in all this more deeply than we know. There's a license number on the car. I will get back to you about it once the analysts have done their work.

"In the meantime, there's a clinic nearby with a doctor we use. How are your injuries?"

"I am okay. The shoulder popped back into place. It'll be sore but mostly it's scrapes and bruises..."

Brown stopped listening to them. _Larkin is alive. What is he doing? What is Graham doing? Are they working against each other or together alone, somehow?_

Brown was having a hard time discerning a pattern in Graham's actions. He wanted the Intersect, but why order and then rescind an order to kill Eleanor Bartowski? She did not _seem_ like she had anything to do with this.

Still, that Ellie knew Walker's name and had asked Zondra about her was puzzling. Why would Walker reveal her name to Eleanor, much less tell her something that would make Eleanor think a woman with a gun would know Walker? Did Chuck tell Ellie something, make her privy to the Intersect? It seemed unlikely, given events. But still: these Bartowskis were proving to be far more than anyone would have predicted, and far more trouble. And Larkin exposed himself to discovery to save Eleanor.

The problem for Brown was what to do with the information he now had. He still did not know what was going on with Chuck, the Intersect and Walker, although he was sure Walker had no intention of terminating Chuck. Perhaps she would find him and take the Intersect from him. But the more Brown mused on likely scenarios, the more he began to think Walker likely to throw in with Bartowski and join his inexplicable forays against Fulcrum.

_Good for you, Agent Walker. Maybe that's how Eleanor knows. You've told her because of Chuck. _

Word had reached Brown of Carina Miller's stunning exposure and arrest of Smithers in Seattle, and it turned out that Smithers had Fulcrum ties. Brown had no doubt that Smithers' downfall involved Chuck. Chuck and Walker would be a powerful team against Fulcrum, perhaps enough to finally cause Fulcrum's leader or leaders to make a mistake, reveal themselves.

Brown did not want Graham to have the Intersect, but he wanted Fulcrum to have it far less. He wanted Fulcrum gone. Better the Intersect remain with Chuck and better Chuck remain on the loose, a loose cannon damaging Fulcrum. A loose cannon with the CIA's best agent by his side.

Brown knew that he was risking Eleanor, but he would do what he could to help her. Larkin had saved her when he could have let her die; again, Larkin exposed himself to save her. She was likely safe enough, at least for a while.

Brown started chasing down the information on the car Larkin used and also on the woman in the car. Since Larkin was alive and still technically rogue, he would certainly have covered his tracks. Graham would put another analyst on this - he obviously wanted the two Bartowski missions to be separate from each other.

But Brown was better than anyone else Graham had. If there was a way to figure out how to find Larkin, Brown would find it. He would keep Eleanor Bartowski alive and safe, insofar as doing so was in his power from a desk in DC. He had his gifts, his training, his CIA supercomputer, and the worldwide web. His fingers could be anywhere in seconds, maybe less.

He would find Larkin and help make sure Zondra saved Eleanor. And the bearded guy, Morgan Grimes, too. _I know him from Buy More footage. Kinda like to meet that kid. That bicycle stunt! A bit of fiery daring, that._

Brown was playing more ends than he could count against a middle he did not understand. Maybe he was playing God. His dad would not have liked that.

It was not Brown's intention. All he knew for sure was that he had a good feeling about Chuck Bartowski and that apparently so did Sarah Walker. That was enough to make Brown feel that the Intersect was right where it needed to be.

* * *

Chuck and Sarah left _Tractor Supply _looking unlike the couple that came in. Sarah was smirking to herself, but not outwardly. Chuck looked good in his change of costume. He had gone from a grey flannel suit to a brown duck chore coat, cowboy boots, and dark jeans, a red flannel shirt beneath the jacket.

Sarah was dressed in a similar fashion, except her chore coat was navy and her flannel shirt blue and white checked. She had perched a blue trucker's cap on Chuck's head, the front patch of which read: _International Harvester. _She had put an all-black trucker's cap on herself; it had no message on the front, although Chuck had teased her with a camo one, pinkly embroidery on the front: _If you want peace, prepare for war._ She had declined it.

They had bought the clothes and then changed in the store. Their old clothes were now in the bags from the store.

Chuck had taken Sarah's hand as the walked out. They got to the car and Chuck pulled Sarah to him, kissing her without warning. She dropped the bags of clothes and put her arms around him. She had been waiting for that kiss all day and she leaned into it as hard as she could, squeezing him against her. When the kiss broke, her black hat was askew.

"Wow," she said breathlessly, "what was that for?"

"For putting up with my post-flash...doldrums. I'm feeling better now, more like myself." He leaned toward her and kissed her again. He licked his lips. "MMmm. I like your flavor." He said that with the hint of an unplaceable accent.

"Is that another Thornhill _North By Northwest _line, Chuck?"

He chuckled and nodded. "Busted. I guess I shed the magic with the suit?"

"Get me to a room with a bed and let's test that theory. Repeatedly. I suspect the magic is in the man, not the suit." She picked up the bags. "Let's hurry. There's a lot more of me to taste, Chuck." She handed him the bags and he practically jumped into the car.

She hurried around to the other side, laughing, almost skipping. He seemed himself again, and eager. She was as eager as he. She straightened her cap and got behind the wheel.

* * *

Ellie looked around now that there was light. She and Morgan were in a long rectangular room. They had been in the near end of it. The room was empty. Jill looked over her shoulder, and two men entered the room. One was carrying a small table, the other was carrying a stack of folding chairs. Jill turned back toward the men and watched as the first situated the table and the second unfolded the chairs and put them around it. Four chairs. Jill walked to the table and put the tray down. The two men left, but the door in the wall remained open. A moment after the men left, overhead lights flickered on above their heads, and now the light from the door was unnecessary. Morgan, who had been standing and staring at Jill, his Zippo aflame and his jaw ajar, snapped the Zippo's top closed. The sound caused Jill to glance at him but she did not make eye contact with him.

"Sit down and get something to drink if you feel like it. I brought you each a bottle of water. There are sandwiches too, although perhaps neither of you feels like eating yet. Anyway, someone will be in momentarily with water and towels so you can wash up. We had a doctor look at you both when we arrived; Morgan is bruised and stiff but nothing is broken. The aftereffects of the drug Bryce administered to you should pass soon, Ellie." Jill finally looked at Ellie's face, the first time since the rearview mirror in the parking deck. She smiled but the smile faded when Ellie remained stony-faced.

"Bryce will be in soon and he will explain all this. He's not big on the disembodied voice thing." With that, Jill turned and headed toward the door.

"Jill."

She turned. "Yes, Ellie?"

"Did you ever actually care for Chuck or was it all some perverse game?"

Jill stood for a moment in silence and without any movement. "It's ancient history, Ellie. The future matters now, not the past." She left.

Morgan watched her go, the door still open.

Before he could say anything, Ellie stepped to him, whispering. "Say nothing about Chuck or what we know. Say nothing about Sarah."

She finished just as one of the two men from before came in carrying a tray on which was a basin of steaming water, a stack of towels and a bar of soap.

He put it down beside the other tray and left. Ellie watched him go to the door and through it, the door still open. "Are we prisoners or not?" Ellie asked, looking around the room, waiting for Bryce's tinny, amplified voice.

He answered in person, moving through the door very deliberately, a grimace on his face. "I'm afraid that's complicated..."

* * *

Casey woke up in Carina's bed but Carina was not in it. She was standing, fully clothed, beside it, looking down at him.

"Get up, Casey. The DEA is so happy with me I have a full month off, and I want to vacation by helping Chuck and Sarah. I want to know what the hell is going on. And, I admit, I kinda want to witness the Ice Queen in love. I want to know how the story ends. So, get up! We'll figure out what your biddy-general bitch of a boss is up to on the way."

She threw his pants on the bed, her tone brooking no argument. "Are you coming, or are you going to just lay there dreaming about my gymnastic perfection and my perfume?"

Casey reddened. He tried to cover it. "I have my duty, Carina." Casey did not sound convinced, not even to himself. His follow-up grunt lacked force.

She nodded firmly. "Yes, you do. Your _higher_ duty. And I believe that's the duty you will do, John Casey, and if I didn't, I would never have let you back in my bed." She smirked at him, bent down, then rose and threw his shirt atop his pants. "And if you're good, I might let you stay there a while. But only if you are..._good. _Like before."

Casey stood up and started dressing. She kissed his cheek as he pulled on his pants and her perfume wafted around him full strength. _How can I fight that? _

As he buckled his belt, it occurred to him that his stomach felt fine for the first time in days. _What am I doing?_

* * *

The motel room looked like a Carhartt salesman's travel case had a rager. Coats and hats and jeans and boots and flannel shirts were here, there, everywhere. Sarah had gotten up to get some ice from the ice maker and had just returned to the room. She had the navy chore coat on, holding it shut.

Chuck looked at her from the bed when she came in. She put the ice down and let the coat fall open. She had nothing on beneath it. Chuck breathed out slowly. "A photograph of you like that, in that coat, would suffice on its own to reinvigorate countless chapters of Future Farmers of America."

Sarah giggled as she walked toward him. "I don't know about that, but I do know you still have chores to do, Mister Bartowski. Or is that _International Harvester_ hat a false promise?"

Chuck threw back the bedclothes. Sarah climbed on top of him, wrapping them both in her navy coat. They forgot was what behind them, or ahead of them - or in Chuck's head - and they sank into each other, conjoint oblivion.

* * *

Bryce worked his way to one of the folding chairs and sat down laboriously. Ellie, watching, shook her head. "Bryce, you ought to be in a hospital bed somewhere, not...well, doing what you've been doing, whatever exactly that is."

He gave her a smile. For a moment, Ellie forgot who she was talking to and registered the magnetism of the smile. But then she remembered, and she remembered Chuck, and the tractor-beam smile lost its power. _He's just Bryce Larkin, asshole, ever, world without end._

"Thanks, Ellie, and what I have been doing is looking for Chuck. I need to find him, and I need to find him soon. I sent him...something. I'm guessing since he seems to be nowhere to be found, he got it and then he ran. He's in serious danger - danger from virtually every side, including my Agency, the CIA.

"Jill and I found you flukishly. We went to your apartment but no one was home. We then went to the Buy More. A strange, heavy-set man, a Jeff, I think, told us Chuck was not there and hadn't been for a few days. But he also mentioned that Morgan" - Bryce looked at Morgan who met the look with undisguised contempt - "had left on his bike and pointed out the direction. He said Morgan sometimes went that direction when he was going to...check out Ellie." Morgan looked at the floor, so as to miss Ellie's glare when it fired his way.

"We headed to the hospital and got there as Morgan went jetting into the parking deck. Something was going on, obviously. We followed him...You know the rest." Bryce stopped and looked at Ellie.

She looked back, keeping her face neutral. "And then you drugged me for no good reason, you son of a bitch."

Bryce winced. "Well, that was probably an over-reaction. But Jill had the gun and the wheel, and I, as you can see, am...incapacitated, and I was afraid you were going to attack us. I did it for everyone's safety." He hit the high beam on his smile again. Ellie did not react and he reluctantly put the smile away. "I'm sorry about that, Ellie. But if you want to keep Chuck safe, you need to tell me everything you can about what happened since...the night of his birthday party." Bryce turned to Morgan. "You too, Morgan. Please tell me. What has been going on with Chuck? Where is he?"

"Before I answer any questions," Ellie said carefully, "explain what you meant when I asked if we were prisoners. What does 'complicated' mean?"

* * *

His head on Sarah's chest, Chuck dreamt.

Mary was standing, wrapped in a sheet, the heavy drapes cracked open and a shaft of evening sunlight fell in a brilliant line across her as if cleaving her.

Stephen was in bed, allowing himself the simple pleasure of looking at her, at her framed against the beauty of the Gran Reyman room. Still standing in the shaft of light, looking out at the sea, Mary spoke.

"I meet him tomorrow morning. His yacht will dock during the night. I have to go, Stephen. It's the mission. Volkoff. But it's not just a mission, Stephen. I'm doing it for us. We're responsible, in a way. And I have my orders." She turned her face toward Stephen. He could detect desperation in her tone, her posture, although she was trying to hide both.

"So you will be gone, again, unreachable. Gone. You will do whatever you have to do for the mission. I am not to look for you?" Nodding, she turned her head and looked back out at the sea. "So you play me as your mark again. Take me to your bed to pacify me, send me away thinking maybe all this will work out, all the while you are planning to do whatever the mission takes, for as long as the mission takes."

He saw her shoulders drop a minuscule distance. Only someone who knew her as well as he did would have caught it. "No, Stephen. I mean: Yes and no. I did not 'take you to my bed'; I _made love_ to my husband because I wanted him and because I missed him so much I felt I might go mad. _I made love to you, Stephen_. I love you. _I am in love with you_. Nothing has changed that. I've done nothing to change that." Her voice dropped. "I can't change that."

"But you are my wife. You are the mother of two children. Ellie and Chuck. They need their parents, their mother."

"They need you, Stephen. I love them. I love you. But this life...I can't let it go and it won't let go of me. I thought I could escape it, I thought loving you and loving them would be enough, would...expunge...my past, allow me to let go of it and force it to let go of me. But it didn't work. I never felt at home. Not because I would have felt at home somewhere else, but because I...I can't have a home. I can't have you or them. I'm a spy: it's all I will ever be. We have tonight. Tomorrow, go home to our children - and find a wife and mother the three of you deserve."

Stephen started to protest but Mary swept toward him in the sheet. She climbed onto the bed and opened the sheet, taking him into her arms. He held her close as she wept onto his chest.

She was his world. He did not know how to live without her. Tomorrow she would leave him.

"If you loved me, Mary, you couldn't do this."

She did not answer but her weeping became inconsolable. Stephen lay there, wet with her tears, awash in pain and hopelessness, hers and his.

* * *

More dream.

Mary left the bed. The room was still dark but dawn would come soon. She thought Stephen was asleep, but he had never slept. She got dressed and gathered her things. She stood stock-still and looked at him for a long time, a statue in the dark grey light. At last, she moved.

He heard her stop at the door, and he thought he heard her whisper, in a choked voice: "_Full of hope I climbed the day…_" He heard a suppressed sob. Mary was gone.

* * *

A/N: Sigh.

Events begin to spin in the next chapter, as some things finally come into focus, and as Chuck and Sarah make it to Outlook, Montana. I hope Chuck's plight is becoming clear to everyone. I've tried to work toward it slowly, to break down the barriers between his mindedness and the InterDadsect bit by bit.

The embedded poetry is a translation of the Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross's _Tras De Un Amoroso Lance_. One of the courses I am teaching is an upper-level philosophy of religion course, "Mysticism, Ontological Arguments, and Religious Traditions". We have been reading St. John together in Barcelona.

Chapter theme: Tal Bachman, _She's So High._

Thanks for all the reviews and PMs. I'm swamped here and so still behind on responses. I will get caught up this weekend, I hope. Please, keep the reviews and PMs coming. It's an important part of the process for me - and, hey, it results in midweek posts and early posts (like this one). By the way, have you checked out the Chuck Fanfiction FB page?

Zettel


	17. Chapter 15: Blood and Sand

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_I did not exactly volunteer, Chuck. But I was not exactly forced into it either…"_

_All he knew for sure was that he had a good feeling about Chuck Bartowski and that apparently so did Sarah Walker. That was enough to make Brown feel that the Intersect was right where it needed to be._

"_A photograph of you like that, in that coat, would suffice on its own to reinvigorate countless chapters of Future Farmers of America." _

"_I never felt at home. Not because I would have felt at home somewhere else, but because I...I can't have a home. I can't have you or them. I'm a spy: it's all I will ever be."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**Blood and Sand**

* * *

Saturday Night/Sunday

* * *

Sarah woke up, Chuck's head still pillowed on her chest. He was crying, quietly. "Chuck?" She spoke in the barest whisper. He did not respond. She realized he was asleep - and crying. _Is this __possible? It shouldn't be possible. _He continued for a few minutes and she was very still, so as not to disturb him, although what was happening made her heart - her heart, _yes I certainly have one_ \- ache. He was dreaming, clearly. She was not sure how to connect the dream and the tears.

Since the _Tractor Supply _stop, Chuck had seemed more himself. He had looked at her when they made love with that same look that he had in the Buy More, before his flash. That look had, for Sarah, regenerative power. She did not think she would ever tire of it or tire of seeing herself as she was reflected in that look. New. Different. She was not sure about the other look, the one that she had seen earlier in the day. It was not the look after his Buy More flash. Not a look that suggested she was a monster, but a look that instead suggested that she was someone else, a look that seemed haunted. She was trying to give Chuck the time to figure it out he asked for, but she was getting worried and the strange dream tears were making her worry more acute.

Chuck finally seemed to fall into a peaceful sleep, and Sarah was able to slide from beneath him. She put on her coat and stepped out of the room, into the hallway. It was late, but she thought Ellie would be happy to hear from her at any time. Chuck had not wanted her to call Ellie, but Sarah thought it was necessary. The phone rang but there was no answer. _Strange. Maybe she had an emergency at the hospital? _Sarah was about to step back into the room when the door flew open and Chuck, his face a mask of panic, stood gaping at her, panting.

"Chuck, what's wrong?"

"You're here?"

"Of course, Chuck. I just stepped out of the room for a minute."

"You weren't leaving me?"

Sarah moved to him and took his hands in hers. His eyes were still slightly wild, disoriented. "Chuck, I am here. I'm not leaving you." She kissed him and he grabbed her and hugged her as if they had been apart for ages.

"Please, don't go. Please…"

"I'm not going, Chuck," Sarah said, squeezing him back. "I'm _with _you. A team."

Gradually, his hug loosened and he leaned away from her enough to see her face and for her to see his. He was pale but he seemed re-oriented, no longer wild.

She felt him tremble. "I woke up and you were gone. I'm sorry; I know better; I should know better, have faith. But I was sure you had left, had left me."

She kissed him quickly. "No, Chuck, I know this is all new to us. I know we've both taken...a leap here, into something that we're trying to understand, not just the Intersect and all of the spy stuff, but into _us._"

She took his hand and turned him into the room. He shut the door with his foot. "I want this...us...Sarah. I...I just have these...doubts." He glanced away from her.

"Because of me, who I have been...my past? Doubts about sharing your bed with a liar and a killer?" She heard her tone neutralize, felt her stomach knot. _Can he really get past that, all that? I wouldn't blame him if it were too much. _

She sat down on the bed and tugged on his hand. He sat down beside her, and turned to her tentatively. He smiled but glumness shortened the ends of the smile. "No, no. The doubts are about...me. About whether someone like me could ever be enough for someone like you." _Mary! Mom. _"The life you've led...It's not...easy...to leave a life like that behind."

"No, it's not, Chuck. That's true. But that's not because it is a life _I want _or that I ever really wanted. I chose it when I did not understand what I was choosing."

"But isn't that what you are doing now, too?"

Sarah sat silent for a minute. "No, Chuck, it's not. I'm not seventeen. I...My heart may be...inexperienced...but I am clear and getting clearer about what I want. I chose the CIA because I did not see how to keep myself alive, because I could see no other choice.

"I chose it without wanting what I chose, even the little I knew of it. And while I admit that...throwing in with you is making a choice beyond what I know, it is _my choice_ in a different sense. I am not making it to keep myself alive, I am making it in the hopes of…" she faltered for a second, "...having a life, a life I want, a life of my own but a life that can be…" - she shifted her eyes slightly, unable to quite look at him as she formulated the words - "a life of my own that I can share with someone. I'm so past tired, Chuck, so past tired of being closed and alone."

He stared at her for a long moment. "So, what is the plan?" He reached for her hand and her stomach unknotted.

"We do what we are doing. We follow the promptings of that thing in your head. We mess things up for Fulcrum as we can. We've got maybe a day or two before Graham is going to know something is up. He has no idea that you have the Intersect in your head; we need to keep everyone in the dark about that for as long as we can.

"In fact, I think we should create a dummy Intersect, something to carry around as if it were what you had downloaded the Intersect on. But we also need to be careful. I know you have the Governor. I know you say you are handling it, but, Chuck, it's obvious that the Intersect is...doing things...to you."

She stopped. He was looking at her in the strangest way, as if he wanted her to continue, but he said nothing and she did not know what else to say. "So we need to do what you said, try to keep your flashing at a minimum. And, Chuck, we need Ellie, need to tell her what is going on."

Chuck's eyes darkened, were obliquely defensive, strange. "No. I mean, no, no, not yet. I don't want her...to be part of this, Sarah. No more than she already is. She's safe...safer, anyway...in Burbank." His eyes lightened, changed with a change of topic: "I have an empty flash drive; it seems like the thing we can pretend has the Intersect on it."

"Let's go back to bed, Chuck." He nodded. She saw his eyes shift yet again, lighter, finally open. "And hold me. We can sleep a little longer before we have to face the day."

They got back in bed and Sarah folded herself into Chuck. He fell asleep but she could not, at least not immediately. She was replaying the changes in his eyes. _What aren't you telling me, Chuck? And why are you keeping secrets? I want to be done with secrets._ _I need you to talk to me._

* * *

Dreaming, again.

Chuck was in the bed in the Gran Reymar. Stephen was. Mary was gone. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes burning, but the pain was too deep for tears. And then he was up, on his feet, dressing fast. He could not do it. He could not let her walk away from him again. There had to be a way to make it work. He needed her; the kids needed her; she needed them.

He had let her do it in Burbank, walk away, and he had a feeling that if he let her do it here, now it would be the end. She did not want him to come after her. He had no choice.

He checked his gun. Mary had been shocked to see it, but he had not explained and she had not asked. He had no idea if she knew he had spent time at the Farm, trained there. But he had and he could do this. He was good at this: "better than any egghead scientist should be", as one of his instructors had said in a backhanded compliment. He tied his shoes and headed out. She couldn't be too far ahead of him and it was a small place. He had yielded in the past; he would fight for her now.

The sun was not up but it was no longer quite dark. He stood outside the Hotel and scanned the area. He did not see her. But then he caught a glimpse of her, not headed south toward the main beach, as he expected, but north and up into the high rocks above the beach. She was moving quickly. Given the physical layout, Stephen had to head down from the Hotel a distance in the wrong direction before he could reorient and follow her. He hurried but did not run. Trucks were out collecting garbage; small tractors were pulling drags through the sand of the beach, collecting debris left on its top layers by yesterday's sunbathers, and smoothing the sand into an unbroken surface.

Stephen left the sidewalk and walked on the edge of the beach to the rocks. Mary had crested them and was no longer in sight. He located what he took to be the trail she was following and he began to lope up it. It was rocky, steep, and the trail deceptively uneven. He had to slow down to keep from twisting a knee or an ankle. He was in good shape; the chase for Mary over the months after the Farm had burned any lingering softness from him, but he was gasping when he finally reached the top. The trail ran along the top, turning slightly inland. Mary was too far ahead for him to see her. His lungs burning, he quickened his pace.

A fork in the trail appeared. Stephen slowed again and looked at the ground. Luckily, the sun was reddening the edge of the sea and he could make out fresh prints. He followed. It took several minutes, but the trail finally began to wind downward, turning slowly toward the sea. He still could not see her. He began to sweat, more fear than exertion. _Why is she meeting Volkoff here, in isolation?_ After another few moments, he could finally see the water - a small cove off a short branch of the trail. If the situation had been different, he might have paused to marvel at the sunrise over the sea, but then, there, he could only push himself forward. He found a place to crouch behind a clump of bushes.

There was a small speed boat near the beach. Three men, one of them who looked to be Volkoff, were standing at the edge of the water, having apparently waded in the short distance from the speed boat. Mary was walking toward them. She waved hesitantly and Volkoff waved back. Stephen was frozen. He did not know what to do. He had hoped to find Mary before Volkoff arrived; he had hoped to try to reason with her. He was too late. If he showed himself now, he might cause Volkoff and his men to hurt her.

Mary reached Volkoff. They started talking. At first, the conversation seemed easy...intimate. And then she closed the distance between them and kissed him. The kiss was intense, passionate, extended.

Stephen tasted bile and rage. _She told me she was trying to get to him. I thought she was meeting him for the first time. _The kiss broke and the talk resumed, but it became heated, animated, and Stephen thought he heard Mary yell at Volkoff, but he could not make out the words. She turned in the sand, but just as she did, Volkoff had a gun in his hand.

The gun's muzzle flashed in the still-grey dawn. Mary spun. Red sprayed into the air. It dotted one of Volkoff's men. Stephen stood, pulling his gun. Volkoff squeezed off two more rounds and Mary spun again, then went down, face down. Volkoff took one step and fired at close range into the back of her head. Stephen raised his gun and...

And then Stephen felt a crushing blow against the back of his head. He lost consciousness.

* * *

Chuck…

...Stephen regained consciousness slowly, fitfully. When he finally opened his eyes the sun was shining bright. His mind filled with what he had seen and he pushed himself up and stumbled forward. The cove was empty. No Mary. No Volkoff. No men. No speed boat. Stephen finally captured his balance, gathered himself and ran to the spot where he had seen Mary shot.

When he arrived, there were blood stains in three separate places on the sand. The place where Mary's head landed was heavily soaked with blood. Stephen sank to his knees and thrust his hands into the sand over and over, howling, raw, an animal wasting itself in grief. The skin on his hands burned and tore; it began to scrape off, bleed, and soon the blood from his hands was mixed with Mary's in the sand.

She was gone. Gone. She had not just left him. She was _gone. _Volkoff had murdered her. She had chosen Volkoff instead of Stephen - and it had somehow resulted in her death. He collapsed onto the bloody sand, no longer baying, no longer...anything. He existed as pain extended in human form, but nothing more.

Betrayal, blood, and sand.

* * *

Sarah woke up and Chuck was gone. She had fallen into a deep sleep and he must have awakened before her. She listened, expecting to hear him in the shower. But, after a moment of no movement and of holding her breath, she heard nothing. She sat up, holding the sheet against herself with one hand. Her clothes still dotted the room, but Chuck's were gone. She jumped from the bed and scrambled to gather her clothes and put them on,. She jammed her feet into her boots without her socks and opened the door. She turned and ran down the hallway to the exit, a kind of fear she had never felt before gripping her. She slammed into the door's handle, sending the door banging it open against the external wall. She scanned the parking lot - and she saw him.

Chuck was walking toward her from across the parking lot. He had on his brown chore coat, its collar up, his shoulders hunched. He was carrying a drink tray with two cups. The tray rested on two styrofoam to-go boxes. He saw her and he offered her a wan, crooked smile. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot beneath his _International Harvester _hat. He looked like a mourner at a rural funeral.

Sarah forced herself to smile through her subsiding panic. "_You_ scared _me_ this time."

Chuck nodded as he drew nearer. "Sorry, Sarah. I woke up and...I couldn't stay in bed. I came out to get some air, then I thought I would go ahead and get breakfast. Eggs, waffles and bacon." He held the stack out and she took the drink tray off the to-go boxes. His voice was soft and thick; it carried a note of defeat.

She wanted to ask him what woke him, what had upset him, but he seemed to be reluctant to talk about it. Again, a reluctance. Again, something in a dream, in his sleep. He was going to have to talk to her soon. _No secrets, no lies. _It made no sense. She had the feeling that he wanted to talk to her, desperately wanted to talk to her, and that for some reason he kept refusing to do what he wanted to do.

She did not understand his self-division, his changing eyes, his alien body language. She had not spent much time with him, but it was clear simply from the awkwardness of his movements that he seemed uncomfortable in his own body. His hunched shoulders were not _him. _But of course, it was him.

They got back to the room and sat down at the small table. Sarah opened the coffees and Chuck opened the boxes. Sarah handed him his coffee and made him look her in the eye. "Something's upset you, Chuck. I thought we had gotten clearer on some things last night."

He tore the wrapper off his plastic utensils, focusing on the task and looking away from her. "I had another bad dream. A really bad dream."

"Was it about me?" Sarah's panic threatened to return. She felt like she was _and_ was not the object of Chuck's mood swings, his strangeness. That dualism was somehow worse than simply being the object of them.

"Yes. Sort of." He coughed, hitting himself on the chest. "I mean, no. Not at all. No, it wasn't about...anybody, really. But it upset me. I...I mean...my...I saw...I mean, I dreamt...I…" He clamped his lips shut and started cutting his waffle angrily. "I'm sorry, I can't talk about it. Not now."

"Chuck, this can't go on. Let's try to contact Ellie today, okay, please - and at least talk to her, tell her what's going on and see if she has any ideas?" Chuck's eyes cycled rapidly through various changes and then he said "Okay", quietly. He started eating his waffle. Sarah looked at him for a minute, then she started to eat too.

At least he had agreed to call Ellie (Sarah hoped she could reach Ellie this time), and they still had a day in the car together. Maybe she could get him to talk about the dreams, about the Intersect. There was something he was not telling her. He had made love to her two nights running with utter devotion and complete abandon, but he kept pulling back from her.

Hot and cold, present but absent, happy or distracted.

* * *

Chuck was miserable, abjectly miserable. He had watched his mom's shooting through his dad's eyes, and he was overwhelmed with his own pain and with his dad's. Chuck had taken his dad's dreams to be memories, true, but now he wanted to deny them that status, to treat them as false; he wanted them - the one last night - to be nightmares, nightmares of his dad's to which Chuck had Intersected access. A part of Chuck held onto that hope; a part of him deemed it foolish. It had all seemed, been, so _real_. He was becoming numb, fatigued by horror.

He wanted to tell Sarah. He needed her comfort but the words would not come; his dad, or the Intersect, was keeping him from revealing that the Intersect was not just a vast collection of national secrets, but came packaged with his dad.

Chuck knew that Sarah was struggling with him, his inconsistencies, his hesitancies, and withdrawals. He did not want there to be secrets between them. Sarah was opening herself. Chuck was being forced closed.

By the time they were on the road, though, Chuck had shaken some of the horror; the scene at the cove stopped re-playing in his head. He still felt miserable, but he was able to focus more completely on what was around him. The Montana sun was bright in the forever-blue morning Montana sky, and its light soothed him. It had been a dream, maybe it was _only_ a dream. But his father's reaction...He gave his head a shake, trying to drive the night and the dream away. Memory or nightmare?

He needed to figure this out. He could not be two people at once.

Without the Intersect, he could not fight Fulcrum - and that was something he wanted to do, more each hour. But with the Intersect, his new relationship with Sarah was threatened. She was already more important to him than anything, more precious each hour.

Their relationship was still working itself out, still tender, and it was killing him to hurt her. Chuck loved his dad, but he did not want to be his dad. The Intersect was changing him - for better and for worse. He needed it in his head; he needed it out of his head.

He needed to figure this out. He needed to be simple, not double: simplicity, not duplicity. His head was no duplex, certainly no triplex. He needed to be Chuck - not the Intersect, not his dad. Not all three.

* * *

Sarah could see the improvement in Chuck. He was not so hunched. His color had returned. He was pensive, sad, but he was not directing it at her. He had been holding her hand all morning, tight, reluctant to let go. She wanted, she needed for him to talk to her, so she started talking to him.

She cleared her throat and launched in. "Just before I got my...mission, the one that sent me to you, Graham forced me to take 'a vacation'. We had not seen eye-to-eye on my previous mission, particularly its end, and so he deliberately left me mission-less for a while. Punishment. Over the years, I had tried hard to avoid any real downtime and mostly had. I worked. The end of one mission blended imperceptibly into the beginning of the next. I guess...things were easier for me if I could treat my life as a mission and not as a life. The only standards I was answerable to were the standards of the CIA, the standards internal to the mission. I could pretend that because I always met those standards that I was doing...okay, sometimes even convince myself that I was doing well, and doing good. Maybe I was doing good sometimes, but I was not doing well, ever…"

"During my 'vacation', I spent a lot of time working out, trying to avoid time just staring at the walls of my apartment. If I slowed down, they became like movie screens for...bad memories. On a run one day, I saw a sign at a daycare asking for afternoon volunteers to work with kids, kids with special needs. I...I'm not entirely sure why, but I volunteered. I spent my afternoons with those beautiful kids and I felt like someone else. I felt _beautiful_ \- they made me feel beautiful. Like a beautiful person. Good. Not just that I was doing good by them, but that I was good, _punkt._ Sort of the way you do, Chuck, when you look at me like you did when you first saw me in the Buy More." She squeezed Chuck's hand and checked: he was paying close attention, rapt by her words, looking at her with the look she had just remembered. It warmed her, chasing the remaining chill of the morning from her system.

_That look. I never knew anyone would listen to me like that. That what I had to say could matter because I said it. That self-revelation could feel like liberation, that opening myself opens the world. _

"I think I began to believe then that my past was not my present or my future. That I could make...other choices, new choices. But I wasn't sure what those would be until I saw a picture in a mission file. A picture of you, Chuck."

He screwed up his face, shocked. "Really? A picture...of me...affected you? And did you just say 'Punked'?"

"No, '_punkt' _\- period, full stop. German. And yes, a picture of you did. It really did. But the whole file affected me. And then your look at me in the Buy More, before you flashed affected me, and then...well, when I dug around on your phone, that affected me. Everything about you affects me, Chuck. I don't know why, and it should terrify me, hound me into hiding, but I...love it and I don't want it to stop."

He turned and looked out at the road, a small smile growing on his face, despite his previous melancholy. "Me too, you know? When I saw you in the Buy More, before the Intersect landed on my head, it was like my life came into focus around you, like you organized it just by standing there before me." He fell silent but he squeezed her hand. "Maybe we're better off just accepting that it happened as it happened. My experience in Nerd Herd repair, in the Cage, suggests that if something works, it's a bad idea to take it apart to find out why. It never goes back together quite right, there're always stray parts…"

"Is that Buy Morian for 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

Chuck actually laughed a little and it warmed Sarah to cause that. "I guess so, although I have never looked any kind of horse, Gift or Arabian or whatever, in the mouth."

"Really?" Sarah asked the question with her brows raised. "You know, a gift horse is not a breed of horse, Chuck. I have looked a horse in the mouth. There was a mission once. I was undercover at a horse-racing track in Istanbul…"

* * *

The drive was wonderful. Sarah talked. And talked. Sarah Walker talked. About herself. About past missions. Good parts of past missions anyway. Chuck knew the bad.

Chuck listened. Whatever had been bothering him had not gone away, but it had receded. He had listened to her with affection and awe as she told him the stories, laughing, gasping, shaking his head, marveling at her. Sarah felt like she was materializing as she spoke, becoming real, substantial, solid. Herself and her own. Not a cover, not a vassal (her father, Graham). She knew something at that moment: she could be Chuck's and still be her own. He wanted her but without any wish to possess or own her. He wanted her as her own. He believed her to be her own.

She _was_ her own _(getting there, anyway_) and she was choosing him freely. Freedom and liberation - all of it dizzying, new, but wonderful.

* * *

Sarah and Chuck were not far from Outlook when they saw a small, handmade road sign. Chuck jerked in his seat and his eyes rolled. A flash. Sarah pumped the brakes and quickly pulled over.

* * *

Earlier, Saturday Night

* * *

Bryce studied Ellie for a second or two. His tone sharpened. "You are in no danger, but, yes, you are prisoners. I can't let you leave. Not until we have Chuck. So, tell me everything, starting with the birthday party. Tell me now."

Ellie and Morgan shared a look. "No," Ellie answered bluntly.

* * *

A/N: The timeline will start jumping a bit. Until now, except for flashbacks, the action has been (more or less) contemporaneous although spatially distant. I've tried to keep all the characters in the (same) moment. Separations now will often be _both_ temporal and spatial - the story is about to open up, the horizons to be pushed back. Despite that, I believe things will be clearer and less demanding to follow. Still, details will matter and you will have to keep track to understand.

Some difficult moments in this chapter and the last. I've been half-dreading the writing of them since early on.

Let me hear from you, please. I am catching up on responses, and I thank each who has responded.

Chapter theme, _Giving Up, _Ingrid Michaelson

Z


	18. Chapter 16: Couches in My Head

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Be prepared for timeline jumps.

* * *

"_I woke up and you were gone. I'm sorry; I know better; I should know better, have faith. But I was sure you had left, had left me."_

"_I'm so past tired, Chuck, so past tired of being closed and alone." _

_The gun's muzzle flashed in the still-grey dawn. Mary spun. Red sprayed into the air. _

_Chuck wanted to tell Sarah. He needed her comfort but the words would not come; his dad or the Intersect was keeping him from revealing that the Intersect was more than a vast collection of national secrets, but came packaged with his dad too. _

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

**Couches in My Head**

* * *

_Sunday Evening - Near_ Outlook, Montana

* * *

Chuck flashed.

A sign on the roadside, small, neatly hand-lettered: _COBA Beef Breeding. _The words were followed by an arrow, pointing left. Pictures filled Chuck's mind, documents, pieces of a pattern that locked into place. COBA. Beef Insemination. Beef breeding. But not located, not offering services in Montana. Chatter. NSA. CIA. Permits, photographs. Travel documents. A farmhouse and a barn. A barn. The barn. In the barn.

No, below the barn. Barn façade.

_Fulcrum._ _Intersect._

The last two were not pictures but were recognitions of the pattern. No one could have seen it who did not have all the data, the programming, Chuck's mind, Chuck's mind _plus. _He had to get into and beneath that barn. As the violent assault of images ceased, there was a trailing sound of a child's piano, pitchy and clinky.

~"Chuck!"~

~"Dad?"~

~"What are you doing with her? I've told you what she is. Leave her. Run!"~

~"Run? Run!"~ Chuck grabbed his door handle, jerked it open and lept from the car. A massive cornfield adjoined the road. He plunged into the tall corn, his legs moving but not at his own volition. He plunged deeper, the rough stalks and leaves scraping him as he forced himself through them.

~"Run! You have to forget her.! She betrayed you, will always betray you! Listen to the Intersect, not to her. Listen to me. She's dead."~

Chuck slid to a stop in the loose soil of the cornfield, a small cloud of dry dust rising around his feet and ankles. He could hear Sarah in the distance behind him, hear her moving through the stalks, urgently calling his name.

~"Mom's dead, Dad?"~

~"How did you find out?"~

~"I've been having your dreams. A cove. Gunshots. Volkoff."~

Rage and grief claimed Chuck as their own and he sank to his knees in the dust, below the tall plants in rows to each side. Rage and grief and pain, so much pain.

~"Yes."~ One word, replete with doom and hurt.

~"He killed her. She chose him - and then he killed her. I tried to find him, kill him, but I couldn't get close. I was good but I wasn't good enough; I was too desperate, too angry."~ Chuck felt a lava flow of hate, molten and glowing.

~"Volkoff disappeared before I could find him. Before I could kill him. He made my wife his whore, killed her, and then he disappeared before I could send him to hell…Now, get up, Chuck. She's coming. She is a whore and a liar, Chuck. The sex is a twisted game to her. Think: would a woman like her be attracted to a man like you? It was false from the start. There's an angle she is playing. Get up, Chuck! Run!"~

"No," Chuck replied, aloud. "Wrong woman, Dad."

~"Has she told you she wants out of her life? Told you she wants a different life, that she wants you instead? Has she? She is still on her mission, Chuck, she just changed its parameters on the fly. She'll use you to break Fulcrum, _then_ she will kill you, Chuck. You are about to make her career. She's sleeping with you to make you pliable, pacify you. Confuse you. _Handle_ you..."~

"No."

The lava flow seared the insides of Chuck's skull and chest. It felt like he was full of it, like it had claimed him as its own. His father's voice broke up, became metallic. ~"_Handle you_…Yes. Do as I say, Chuckkk..."~

Chuck felt something break inside him, give way, melt. A profound inner tension released.

Chuck pitched forward onto his face, his _International Harvester _hat falling off, rolling on the ground beside him.

His last vision was of Sarah crashing through the corn, and her hoarse whisper as she rushed to his side. "Chuck!"

* * *

Earlier (Saturday evening)

* * *

Bryce bared his teeth, not in his trademark smile but rather in poorly concealed frustration. "No?"

Ellie glared defiance at him and nodded. "Yes, _no,_ I tell you nothing until you declare yourself, Bryce Larkin. Whose side are you on? What part in this do you play? Does Jill play? Tell me."

Bryce looked up and away from Ellie. At first, she thought he was stalling, then she realized he was looking at someone. A camera. Jill must be watching. Bryce returned his focus to Ellie. "There's too much in play here for me to try to explain it all now, Ellie. But I hope this will suffice: Jill and I are hoping to get to Chuck in time to save his life."

Ellie stifled a wince but knew the color drained from her face. "Go on…"

Bryce took a long breath and adjusted himself painfully in his chair. "On his birthday, I sent Chuck an email. It didn't say 'Best Wishes'; it contained a program. The program is one that can be downloaded into a human mind."

Ellie breathed out, "Bullshit."

Bryce gave her a hard look. "Not bullshit. I believe that Chuck's mind is...uniquely fitted to receive the program. But even so, the program is ultimately destructive. It will claim his mind, destroy it. Destroy him."

"And you sent it to him, you bastard?" Ellie growled and was about to spring from her chair.

Bryce immediately put up his hands, palms out. "Yes, but not to hurt him. I did it to save the program. I thought I was going to die, and that the program would be destroyed. I sent it to Chuck so that he could be the...vessel of the program. Preserve it until I could remove it. I intend to remove it, but I have to find him to do it, and each day, even each hour, counts. I'm already behind, distressingly behind. Jill works as a spy too. We are a team. We both want to save Chuck."

Ellie, calmer, bit her lower lip, studying Bryce intently, as if he were a piece of cancerous flesh on a microscope slide. "Obviously, that's hard to believe, the stuff about the program. But let's say it's true. How much time does Chuck have?"

Jill's voice sounded over the speaker Bryce used earlier. "Two weeks at the most. We aren't positive, though. At first, the damage is primarily psychological. There's physiological damage from the get-go, but it is not irreversible for a while. If it is taken out in time, the damage can heal."

Ellie swiveled in her chair to find the camera Bryce looked at earlier. She noticed a small hole on the wall behind her and she spoke to it. "But neither of you is primarily interested in Chuck, are you. You want to find him, in time, so that you can...extract this program. That's what's motivating you. Tell me the truth."

Bryce answered and Ellie swiveled back. Morgan looked lost. He had been staring at the wall, unsure why Ellie was talking to it, confused by the whole interaction. Bryce kept watching Morgan too while he spoke. "It's true, but not quite like you say. We want to save them both. Not just the Intersect. And we have to save them both - we can't get the Intersect out of Chuck unless we get to him before serious physiological damage sets in. Jill can explain some of the neurological details, although perhaps it would be best to show you."

Bryce paused and the man who had carried chairs into the room earlier came in with a file. He handed it to Bryce and left. Bryce handed the file to Ellie. "This is the medical record of a man who downloaded the Intersect. He was not as...fit...a candidate as Chuck, but he was the most fit we found. Look for yourself."

Ellie opened the file and Morgan stood to look over her shoulder at its contents. Most of it was data, but there were also MRIs and scans. It took Ellie only a few moments to see the deterioration, the destruction, of the man's brain. His brain had basically imploded. Such destruction would have meant a complete loss of the man, even if his body managed to live on past the collapse of the brain. Ellie did not know whether to trust the file or not, but she did not see how to risk Chuck's brain, his mind, to such ruination.

And then she remembered Sarah's question about Chuck and seizures. Her heart began to pump in her throat, not her chest. She put the file down. "Let me talk to Jill." Bryce nodded, his teeth bared this time in a smile, and he limped from the room.

* * *

Jill was seated in a plush desk chair, looking at a monitor. She looked up as Bryce came in, breathing hard from the exertion. She stood and walked to him, putting her hand on his cheek. "Do you need another pain-killer?"

Bryce shook his head. "No. No, I can bear it. It's getting better slowly. We've got her. I told you. It's a Bartowski thing. They'll do anything to take care of the people they love. It's how I ruined them, and how I will capture Chuck. Tell her the truth, within obvious boundaries. When we find him, we'll squeeze everything out of him, then we will download the Intersect. We'll pith him like we stabbed a hot wire through a green stick."

Jill blinked in spite of herself. "Why do you hate him so much?"

"You have to ask? You?"

Jill patted his cheek very gently. "It's okay, Bryce. It was all a long time ago. The future matters now, not the past." She kissed his lips softly and he nodded, a jerk of the chin, his eyes full of ire.

Turning away, Jill swallowed hard. She wanted this all to be over. She had known it was coming and had been dreading it, literally for years. Now that it was here she was less well prepared than she had anticipated. She could do what needed to be done, though; she had made her choices long ago.

* * *

Sunday evening

* * *

Sarah had not been able to bring Chuck back around. He was unconscious.

She had pulled him laboriously back toward the car, using her path into the cornfield as her path out. She was almost out of breath, sweaty and burning from rubbing against the cornstalks when she heard an engine. A plane. She pulled Chuck up against one row of corn and she bent down beside him. A moment later, a small plane buzzed overhead, not quite above them. Luckily, her chore coat and Chuck's were the right colors to make seeing them difficult in the waning sunlight. The plane banked and returned, flying right above them this time. But it did not bank again. The engine grew fainter and fainter.

When she could hear it no longer, Sarah pulled Chuck out of the cornfield and got him in the car. He twitched a couple of times as she fastened his seatbelt around him.

They were on a state road, having left the Interstate some miles back. The plane would have gotten a look at the car, and although the plane's presence could have been a mere coincidence, Sarah's instincts warned her otherwise. She got in the car and headed on in the direction they had been traveling, on toward Outlook. She kept scanning for the plane, but she neither saw nor heard it. She got to Outlook and passed through it - it was a blink-and-miss-it place. On the other side of town, she found a dirt road and turned up it. She drove for a while as the darkness gathered. Eventually, just when the daylight was about to evaporate entirely, she saw an old house on the side of the road and a makeshift automobile cover still standing beside it. She pulled in and parked the car under it. She turned off the engine. Chuck's breathing had been regularizing. It was getting dark enough that she could no longer make his face out clearly in the car. She reached out to him and he jerked in the seat, straining for a moment against the seatbelt. He opened his eyes and looked at her, or seemed to. His face was hard to read, and not just because of the gathering dark.

"Where...where are we?"

"Outside of Outlook. I found this place. I am hoping we can make do here tonight. You need to rest, Chuck."

He clicked his seatbelt and took it off, shaking his head. "No, just give me a minute to get up and move around. I'll be fine. I need fresh air." He got out of the car. Sarah got out and walked around the front of the car to where he stood. She put her arms around him from behind and kissed his neck. She felt him tremble.

"No time for that. We need to get back to that sign and take the road it pointed out. The COBA sign. That farm is a cover for Fulcrum, for an Intersect site. We have to get there tonight." He stepped out of her embrace. "I need to plan. I have an idea of the layout."

"No, Chuck. If we're doing this, we need to plan. Tell me what you know, what you are thinking."

His shoulders hunched and he turned around. "We need to know what Fulcrum knows about the Intersect, how far they've come. Their version is faulty, but they know that. We need to know what they have done to compensate for the faults. To do that, we have to get into the barn at the farm, and then we need to get beneath it. Fulcrum has disguised the farm as a trial station for COBA, for beef breeding science. It was a smart move. No one would question scientist types being around as part of that or the arrival of scientific equipment."

"So, other than getting inside and looking around, what are we going to do, Chuck?" Sarah asked the question as he turned away from her again. He seemed to be staring off into the dark.

"Burn it to the ground."

* * *

Saturday evening

* * *

Zondra's shoulder was aching. Her legs too. She had done everything she could think of to find where Ellie and Morgan Grimes (she now knew his name - it was the one thing her analysts figured out) had been taken. No luck. She knew Graham was going to be unhappy. She needed results. She had a chance here, even though the mission had gone sideways, a chance to secure Graham's favor. She just had to find Bartowski and Grimes, and rescue them, if need be.

She got back in her car after another dead end at a car rental agency. Her phone buzzed. She had a text but there was no number attached to it. There was only an address and the words: _Look for Eleanor Bartowski here. Use extreme caution._

* * *

Brown sat back after sending the text.

He had not slept, not rested at all, in a long, long time. His fingers ached and his eyes burned. But he had a concrete lead and he had sent it to Zondra Rizzo.

He mentally crossed his fingers.

Leaning forward, he went back to his search for Chuck and Sarah - that's how he was thinking about them now, _Chuck and Sarah_. Where had they gone? What were they up to? He was hoping for the best for them too.

He mentally crossed more fingers. His physical fingers were flying.

* * *

Jill came back into the control room. Bryce was seated in the chair she had been seated in when he came in earlier. He was glowering at the computer monitor, at Ellie and Morgan.

"Did you hear that?" Jill said, her face flushed, her voice slightly strained. "Chuck is with Sarah Walker. And given the look on Grimes' face, they think she is _with-with_ him. The strain in Jill's voice bowed down, becoming a frown. "Damn her. Why would Graham have sent _her_ after Bartowski?"

"Because Graham expected her to kill him. It's the only possible reason. And she can't be 'with-with' him," Bryce said through a flat expression, "she does her job. She does the mission. That's all she does. She is the Ice Queen for a reason." Bryce's tone rose, slightly strident. "No one can change her; she sure as hell can't change herself. If she is _with _him," Bryce paused after the single 'with', for emphasis, "then she is playing some angle. I know her…"

Jill gave Bryce a withering look before turning away. "I know you know her, Bryce. Damn her."

"Well, we need to get to her before she puts a bullet in that unique brain of his," Bryce muttered, his pearly teeth clenched. "Get our things; we need to get on the road."

Jill looked at the monitor. "What about them?"

"We keep them here. Insurance. We used Chuck against Ellie; we may need to use Ellie and Morgan against Chuck. When we no longer need them, we'll kill them. We're close now, Jill. He's out there, he's got it in his head. We just need to find him. He's with Sarah. And I know how to find Sarah."

Bryce stood up slowly and flexed his hands, rolled his shoulders. Grimaced. "Pain's lessening. Getting there."

* * *

Sunday evening

* * *

"Burn it down, Chuck?" Sarah asked. The words did not sound like Chuck's. They sounded metallic, inhuman.

"Yes, burn it down. Now we take the fight to Fulcrum. No more mere derailings. I am going to tear up the rails themselves. Bend them beyond use."

He turned back to her and looked at her. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark, but Sarah knew it was just a trick of the nascent moonlight.

He extended an empty hand to her. She started to take it but stopped. It was not extended in invitation. He spoke: "I assume you have an extra gun I can use."

* * *

Chuck came to in the car. He was completely disoriented. A woman was with him. Blonde. Beautiful. Concerned. Who?

_~Sarah Walker, CIA Agent. Killer. Huntress. Liar.~_

The words showed in his mind, almost like closed captioning on a TV screen. But his feelings were not concordant with the words. He looked at her and he felt...love.

_~No. I don't love her. I don't. I can't. She is a spy, she can't love me back. I'm going to be a spy now too.~_

But he did. He loved her. Images came to him - images of making love to her, of her, warm and wonderful, her joined with him, completely lost in him, in their love-making.

The feeling of her hands on his, his on hers.

He did not know he could feel so much. So much. She had eclipsed Jill in a moment at the Buy More and had continued to blot her out. Chuck wanted to reach out and touch her. Tell her. _I love you, Sarah, since I first saw you. _He could not do it. He could not allow himself to linger on his feelings. Instead, he asked Sarah where they were.

As she answered, he felt a sudden surge of urgency. _Fulcrum. The farm and the barn. Intersect. _He needed air and told Sarah so.

He got out of the car, his mind a jumble of images. Of Sarah. Of bits of Intersect data. Of Mary. A plan was taking shape. He felt a rage growing inside himself.

Sarah had gotten out of the car and come to him. She put her arms around him from behind and kissed his neck. For a second, the growing rage subsided. He wanted to turn and kiss her, whisper things to her. Tell her how much he needed her. How impossible life was without her.

He could not do that. _Wrong woman_. _~Always the wrong woman.~_ He shivered in response to her embrace; it caused him so much pain. He missed her so much.

"No time for that." It was time to finish Fulcrum, flush the leaders from hiding. He was sure that Fulcrum was Volkoff's brainchild - and perhaps it would be Volkoff who would, at last, be flushed into the open. So Chuck could put a bullet in his head, just as Volkoff had put one in hers. Mary's.

He turned and told Sarah what they needed to do. His voice sounded strange to him, reminded him of Cylons on the old _Battlestar Galactica. _He knew that voice, though. Had heard it before. He finished explaining to Sarah and felt the rage returning. Molten. White hot. Fire.

He turned away from her. She asked what he had planned for the farm, the barn. For Fulcrum. He turned back around.

_~Burn it to the ground.~_

No gun. He had no gun. He felt naked without a gun. Without a gun. A gun. He should have taken the one in the Tarzana basement. He put out his hand and asked Sarah.

He wanted a gun.

He needed a gun.

* * *

A/N: Things in Chuck's head have been confusing. Buckle up, it's about to get worse. You'll have to pay attention to the typography and bear in mind that I am constantly playing with pronouns (with ambiguous or shifting pronomial reference) and with proper names, verb tenses. Chuck's mind is a melange, so too the sentences expressing his mind.

What of Casey and Carina? Next chapter.

Drop me a line. Always look forward to hearing from folks.

Currently, I'm finishing my teaching and am buried under grading and preparations to head back home Saturday. That's the reason this chapter is a little shorter.

Chapter Theme: Benjamin Jameson Morey, _Couches in My Head_


	19. Chapter 17: Barn Razing: Part One

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Back from Barcelona. A short-ish update.

* * *

"_I believe that Chuck's mind is...uniquely fitted to receive the program. But even so, the program is ultimately destructive. It will claim his mind, destroy it. Destroy him."_

"_When we find him, we'll squeeze everything out of him, then we will download the Intersect. We'll pith him like we stabbed a hot wire through a green stick."_

_He extended an empty hand to her. She started to take it but stopped. It was not extended in invitation. He spoke: "I assume you have an extra gun I can use."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**Barn Razing: Part One**

* * *

Sunday, near Outlook

* * *

Sarah looked at Chuck's extended hand, the fingers already curled as if to receive the requested weapon, as if he habitually held a gun — the way Sarah knew her hand prepared itself for her gun whenever she reached for it. She wished her hand otherwise, herself otherwise, — but she knew Chuck was not acquainted with guns; he _was _otherwise, or he _should _have been. She had told him he had done a creditable job of acting as a spy, but she did not mean he was one, or that she wanted him to be one,

She had not really thought much ahead. Projected. About the future. She had been so lost in the moments with Chuck. She wanted, she wanted a future with him. She was not sure positively what she hoped for from that future, but she was sure negatively what she hoped for — she hoped not to be a spy anymore. She had said a final long goodbye to that life when she entered the MoPop, kissed Chuck, kept him company at the sci-fi exhibit, and later made love to him.

_Love._

Even before Budapest, Sarah had started having momentary visions of a different life, though the visions faded quickly and were always in soft focus. Their brevity and uncertain content did not render them mere idle fantasy: they stirred Sarah, creating eddies in the spot where her heart should have been, the spot where, it turned out, her heart _was. _Budapest had stirred her more, and it had, although Sarah had not admitted it to herself as such, dilated and focused the visions.

When she understood that the Intersect was inside Chuck and that there was no clear remedy for it, she pledged her knowledge and skills to keep him safe, to help him in his fight against Fulcrum. But her thought was that she would be the spy while Chuck was...well, Chuck. He was the Intersect, not a spy.

The extended hand before her suggested otherwise, as did Chuck's posture and tone of voice. Sarah had spent her adulthood among spies. She knew their cultivated numbness, their muted conscience, their running internal soliloquy of self-justification. The spy life was no life for a human being. Seeing Chuck standing before her in the dark, hunched and waiting for her response, she felt her visions of the future contract and blur.

_Love._

From visions of the future, Sarah's mind returned to the past, to a moment, the last moment although she did not know it, as Bryce Larkin's partner. He had stood before her then, his hand extended, his eyes urgent.

When Graham partnered Sarah with Bryce, she wondered if it had been an attempt by Graham to react to her obvious isolation and loneliness. That had made her suspicious of Bryce, made her wonder if _she _was Bryce's real mission. Bryce's ready, affecting smile had seemed pretended to her, unreal. She was also puzzled by Bryce's repeated, mostly subtle remarks suggesting that Sarah might be less-than-fully committed to being a spy. She wondered if Graham realized that she had been having visions of another life, a different future, and had sent Bryce to find if she were or to recommit her to the spy life.

Eventually, Bryce had overcome her suspicions. They had worked together effectively, She had slowly grown to depend on him professionally. His smile had then begun to affect her personally. She was isolated, lonely. So much so. With only Carina Miller a friend, and Carina rarely available even for phone calls, no more often than Sarah herself. She had no other personal life; her life was professional, to the extent that it was a life at all. Bryce had pressed her slowly, making it clear that he was interested in their partnership taking on an added character. His frequent comments about Graham and the Company stopped seeming suspicious and seemed like an attempt to establish solidarity with her. She began to think that perhaps there could be something real, personal, not merely professional, between them. She liked him and thought that she might come to feel more, that they might have a future that contained something more than missions.

He continued to press her and she finally yielded. For a few weeks, Sarah thought that a new epoch had begun in her life. But then she began to notice that though they were sharing a bed, she still felt alone. Bryce had changed little in his manner toward her other than when they were in bed — and there the difference was mostly in activity, in husky endearments that were whispered only when she was naked. When her clothes were on, there was no indication of anything personal between them. He continued to criticize Graham and the Company and seemed to be waiting for a particular response from her, but she was uncertain what that response was. Bryce seemed to be growing impatient with her, and slowly the naked endearments grew rarer.

Sarah began to see Bryce more clearly, then. What had seemed a charming, if cocksure and off-center decency was instead a superficially amiable callousness. Behind the smile was someone not smiling, or someone smirking at the effect of his smile so that the inner blankness or smirk darkened the pearly outward show.

Sarah gave up on anything real between them and she stopped sleeping with him. Bryce had tried to restart things between them. Sarah was...unreceptive. Bryce became frustrated and their missions became trials. Bryce became openly distant, hostile and simmeringly angry.

As what would turn out to be their final mission together ended, Bryce had made a final attempt to get Sarah to go away with him, on a vacation to Cabo. He had held out his hand and gave her his smile, full power. He seemed to attach a significance to the trip beyond an attempt to recapture whatever he thought was between them.

He held out his hand to her. "Come with me, Sarah. It could be a whole new start, a beginning of...a new life." He held her eyes with his. After a moment, Sarah shook her head. Bryce's eyes shifting from pleading to angry frustration. He shook his head at her and turned. He walked away.

She never saw him again, never technically broke up with him, although she was not sure they had ever been a couple. Not really.

She had felt disappointed as she watched him leave, but she was not heartbroken, not about him. But she was for herself. Her spy life closed in again, its isolated loneliness clanking shut, recognizable for what it was, her one faithful faithless friend.

Budapest changed that — in a complicated way. And then she saw Chuck's photo, and for some reason, she began to believe she might not be sentenced to be alone. Then, when their eyes met at the Buy More she knew she was not so sentenced. She had not realized what she knew, but she had known it. The knowledge had lulled her to sleep in Chuck's bed. But it had taken her gun in her hand at the Greyhound terminal for the knowledge to rise to realization.

All this sped through Sarah's mind as she looked at Chuck's extended hand. He flexed his fingers, emphasizing his hand's emptiness. She glanced up at his eyes. They looked determined but not as hard as his voice suggested. They were Chuck's eyes but the bodily posture beneath them was not. His flash had obviously affected him but it oddly did not seem to have left him in the pain the other flash she witnessed had — less pain but more oddness.

"Chuck, I think I'm the one who should carry and use the weapons. We need for you to concentrate on what we find, what it means." She smiled at him with a trace of sadness. "You know what I can do."

He nodded. "Yes, I know...what you're capable of…" Chuck was looking at her but she felt like he did not see her. He seemed to see past her. Past her.

She put her hand in his empty hand and she tugged him toward her. She cupped his face in her hands and he was then present to her. "I'm finding that I didn't know all I am capable of...All I am capable of...feeling. I'm…" - _in love with you _\- "I'm...crazy about you, Chuck." Her heart thumped madly.

His hesitant, responsive smile was tinctured with self-mockery. "I'm...crazy about you too," he whispered in his own voice. His words brought quick, hot tears to her eyes and she kissed him and he kissed her back.

* * *

Earlier

* * *

Carina was driving. Casey ended his call. Beckman. He told her he was still on Bartowski's trail but that he had gotten away in Seattle. He kept Carina and Smithers out of the conversation, of course, but he wanted to demand an answer. Yes, interagency cooperation was less than ideal, but hanging a DEA agent, a good one, out to dry? That was bizarre behavior for Beckman. Over the years, Casey's sense of himself had become dependent on his sense of her, his sense that she was basically a decent woman, that she fought to do the right thing always and often enough won those fights, even when others - men in other high places, almost always, like that fuck, Graham - fought back hard.

The termination order on Bartowski, although Casey had accepted it at the time without balking, had bothered him, especially coming from her. It had led to his soured stomach. Not to even give the kid a chance, not to try to figure him out...And then throwing Walker in too, and the feeling he had that the termination order on Walker had some _personal _edge. _There'd been something in Beckman's voice when she mentioned Walker..._Casey was sure some game was afoot. Just then Beckman had seemed edgier, more frustrated, distracted than was usual for her. Casey had no illusion that he and she were friends, but they had become a bit more than employer and employee. He trusted his sense of her and it was warning him.

The problem was that he needed her and the analysts. Carina did not want to call Walker. But they had no idea where she and Bartowski had gone. Casey knew the analysts supporting him back at NSA headquarters were good, but they had already proven that the CIA analysts were better. Beckman had promised him intel soon. All he had at the moment was a blurry security photo from a gas station on I-90E. He had been sent it just before leaving Seattle. It looked like Walker and Bartowski, but it was too blurry for a positive ID.

He still was not sure what he was doing. Technically, he was still _on-mission_ but Carina beside him was a twist and he had no clarity about what he was going to do if he managed to catch up with Walker and the kid.

_She's a kid too if he is; she's just been sweating in this meat factory so long I forget how young she is. I wonder if this is the first time she has..._he glanced at Carina behind the wheel..._ever been in love. Probably. 'Ice Queen' may not capture her essence, but it is not a complete misnomer, responsive to nothing. She couldn't have carried it around so long if it was._

Casey chuckled bitterly to himself. Carina glanced away from the road, at him, then back to the road. "What?"

"I was just thinking about Walker's title - _the Ice Queen_. Do you know anything about that?"

"I'm Walker's...Sarah's friend, John, but I'm not her confidante. No one is." Carina pursed her lips as she stared down the road. She shook her head slightly. "Until now, maybe."

"What do you mean?"

"Sarah makes the tight-lipped look long-winded. We've spent a fair amount of time together, in different sorts of...extreme situations, and yet I know very little _about_ her, in the ordinary sense. I feel like I have gotten to know _her_ but I can't say that's made her make sense to me exactly.

"I have no idea about when or how she joined the CIA. How Graham came to choose her for her role as Enforcer. I know next to nothing about any of those missions. But she did tell me, once, after drinking a bit more than she would ever normally drink - a near miss that day, we were both nearly killed; she saved me, although I would never admit it to her - and she told me that she got stuck with 'Ice Queen' on the Farm. It had a lot to do with her, her _inanimation,_ if you'll allow me the term, her impassiveness, but it also had to do with a legendary recruit from years ago, a woman named..._Frost_...I think. But Sarah didn't elaborate. Sarah never elaborates, although I sometimes thought she wanted to."

Casey nodded slowly, mulling it over. "Huh. Frost. A legend but shrouded in mystery and very hush-hush." He frowned at his use of the last term. "Don't know much about her, never clapped eyes on her or anything, but I can see how Walker might have made the old-timers remember her. Rigid. Absolutely focused. No variableness, no shadow of turning...although she was all shadow, they say."

Carina glanced at him again. "'Variableness? 'Shadow of turning?' You are a deep old file, John Casey. There _are_ words behind those grunts, aren't there?"

Casey grunted. Carina reached over and squeezed the inside of his thigh. He grunted again at a higher pitch, half-yelp. He looked at her again with a certain heat but forced himself back on topic.

"But what did you mean, 'until now'?"

"Oh, right. I meant that I think she's _elaborating_ with Bartowski - and that's not just a metaphor for lots of sex.

"I could tell, talking to her, that things had shifted: deep, fundamental things in her. She wasn't ready to share with me, not much anyway. I think she wanted to share with him first. Although saying she _wanted it_ probably makes it too...conscious. But it was where she was heading, conscious of it or not. Her tone with him on the phone slipped easily into intimacy - a new tone for the Ice Queen, even amongst friends."

Casey's phone beeped. An incoming text. Anonymous. Anonymous? _Head to Montana. Details to follow. _

* * *

Brown had the photo from the gas station. He also had more, a couple of photos from traffic cameras. Chuck and Sarah were on I-90E. But to where? Montana? What the _hell_ was in Montana?

Nothing but sky, so far as Brown knew.

_Intersect and Interstate. _

He kept looking, digging. Started calculating stops, checking social media with hashtags for I-90E or for sights along the way. Aggregating data, sifting it. Somewhere out there was another Cindy Swisher.

Then he found it, an Instagram photo. It was of Sarah Walker in a _Tractor Supply _(Brown shook his head: _Sarah Walker in a_ Tractor Supply?) just over the Montana border. The photo had been taken by a teenage boy. It was taken of her reflection, technically, as she stood in front of a long mirror hanging from the back of an open dressing room door. She was wearing...a barn coat. A chore coat. And a black truckers cap. She was smiling shyly at herself and oblivious of the picture or picture-taker. Chuck was just visible in the background, similarly clad, with a hat of his own on.

The Instagram comment read: "Putting the 'F' back in 'Farming'. Wow. Just wow. Future Farmers of America, sign me up!"

Brown laughed in spite of himself. He leaned toward the monitor, looking closely at Chuck's hat.

_Intersect and Interstate and International Harvester._

Giving John Casey information was a calculated risk. Mucking around in the NSA computers was a calculated risk. But Brown knew Casey was with Carina Miller. Maybe Brown was playing God, moving pieces on a board like he was playing computer chess, but he was almost certain that Chuck and Sarah were going to need backup, eventually. And Carina was clearly not going to be with Casey if she thought he was planning to harm Walker.

Calculated risk. Bartowski had a strange power to change people. Brown mentally crossed yet more fingers, his mental hands a bizarre Cat's Cradle.

_Part of the cure, Dad, not part of the disease._

* * *

Zondra worked her way toward the building. It was several stories high but looked as though it were condemned. The windows on the first floor were covered in graffiti-splashed sheets of aluminum. On the upper floors, the windows were mostly altogether gone or shattered. She had watched the place for a while but had seen no sign of life.

Except for a light coming from a small, inset window below the first floor. That light had convinced her that the anonymous text she had gotten was steering her correctly. Someone had gone to a huge effort to make the building look ignorable, insignificant. But it was not empty. It had electricity, power.

She checked her gun, far calmer now than she had been when she faced terminating Eleanor Bartowski. Danger was not Zondra's problem. She had grit, fortitude. She could kill but she now suspected she was not a killer. Defending herself was natural to her. Killing the defenseless - that was deeply unnatural.

She double-checked her gun, then checked her extra magazines. She had a flashlight and a knife in her belt, as well as two flash grenades and a lockpicking kit. She felt a moment of silliness, like she was Batgirl with a utility belt. _If Eleanor Bartowski is in that building, she is coming out with me, both of us alive._ _Oh, and the small, bearded guy too_.

* * *

Sunday

* * *

Chuck pulled back from their kiss and gazed into Sarah's eyes. "Let's go. We need to get to the farm tonight. Did you see a plane?"

Sarah nodded, surprised. Chuck gave her a tight, moonlit smile. "Invoice in my head." He smiled at his phrasing.

Sarah did not entirely understand the meaning of the smile. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, for some reason the aftermath of this flash doesn't seem so bad. Maybe I am getting used to it." _Maybe not. Maybe I am being used by it. _"Is there a gas station we can stop at?"

"I saw one in Outlook."

"Good. We need matches, and maybe a gallon can of gasoline. I think Fulcrum will supply the fuse and the rest of the explosives."

Sarah was not sure what that meant either. Chuck got into the car and she went around and got in, starting the engine. He put his hand on hers and leaned toward her. "Can you leave this life, Sarah, really? Walk away from it? Maybe with me, once we finish? For real?"

She smiled at him, happy for the question. "Yes, Chuck. _Really_. I want to be done. We do this, what we have to do and then, _if you still want me_, we find a way to be together, away from the spy life, far, far away."

He stared into her eyes as if looking for something, some absolute proof of her sincerity. She offered what she could. She held his gaze, opening hers to him. He kissed her again. "Okay, let's go find out what Fulcrum's been up to in Outlook."

* * *

A/N: This was to have been the second half of the previous chapter, but relocating from Barcelona to Alabama interrupted my writing. I decided to make it a stand-alone chapter. Tune in Friday-ish-ish for _Barn Razing: Part Two. _Action. Lots of action.

Let me hear from you. Since responses have slowed, I likely will too.

Chapter Theme: _Burn Your Playhouse Down, _The Proclaimers


	20. Chapter 18: Barn Razing: Part Two

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_But her thought was that she would be the spy while Chuck was...well, Chuck. He was the Intersect, not a spy._

_Sarah had spent her adulthood among spies. She knew their cultivated numbness, their muted conscience, their running internal soliloquy of self-justification. The spy life was no life for a human being. _

_Her spy life closed in around her again, its isolated loneliness clanking shut, recognizable for what it was, her one faithful faithless friend._

"_Huh. Frost. A legend but shrouded in mystery and very hush-hush." He frowned at his use of the last term. "Don't know much about her, never clapped eyes on her or anything, but I can see how Walker might have made the old-timers remember her. Rigid. Absolutely focused. No variableness, no shadow of turning...although she was all shadow, they say."_

_Part of the cure, Dad, not part of the disease._

_If Eleanor Bartowski was in that building, she was coming out with Zondra, both of them alive. Oh, and the small, bearded guy too._

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**Barn Razing: Part Two**

* * *

Sunday night

* * *

Chuck closed his eyes, the taste of Sarah's lips still on his lips.

When she was looking at him, when they were in contact, physical contact, he believed what she said, believed the sweetness of her lips, the words that fell from them. But when she was not looking at him and was not in contact with him, her words fell and felt empty, the sweetness of her lips a treacherous honeytrap.

He felt strange. _Strange_. Not in pain. Not ill. But not _whole_. Or more than whole. He was not himself, not just himself. Less than or more than himself. It was not like the after-flash episodes when he could hear his dad in his head. That had felt like an alien presence, like a voice from the outside, outside himself, anyway. Now, it was his own voice that seemed sometimes alien, as if some of his words were meant from two different perspectives, meant two different things. _Amphiboly_. It was as if he was listening to himself talk instead of just talking, as if he could only understand what he was saying by hearing it, passively, instead of knowing it as its speaker, actively. "If I listened to the words out of my mouth, I might say that someone else was speaking out of my mouth." _Right. Where did that quotation come from? A memory. Mine?_ _How can I have someone else's memories? But I have had someone else's dreams. _

He needed to explain this to Sarah. Needed to. Wanted to. _Couldn't_. Any attempt to express certain thoughts, verbally or whatever, seemed to fall apart, as if his will to do it evaporated just ahead of the deed. It was like being massively irresolute, except that was not what it was. A resolve formed and then it...deformed, as if it had been surgically removed from his mind, leaving only a resolve-shaped wound.

"There's the sign ahead, the COBA sign, Chuck."

Chuck snapped his reverie in two and looked out, all one focus. "Good. Shut off the lights. The moonlight should suffice. Find a place to park back off the road. Maybe in another cornfield, if we are lucky. Shut down the car and we will give our eyes a minute to adjust, then we will walk the rest of the way." He felt calm. Like he had done this sort of thing before, and not just in Weed or in Seattle. He spoke decisively. Sarah looked at him, worried puzzlement on her face, but she nodded.

"We've got no back-up, Chuck. If anything happens…"

"It won't," he announced summarily.

Sarah made the turn and found another cornfield, the farmhouse and barn just up the road. Sarah took the car off-road, driving slowly and carefully into the stalks of corn, grey-green in the moonlight. A short distance in, she looked back in the rearview. Some stalks that had only bent and not broken sprang back up, crookedly, behind the car, offering some cover for it. She shut it off. Chuck got out of the car.

* * *

Sarah reached into her bag and grabbed her phone. Holding it down in her lap, she popped the trunk and then, obscured from Chuck's view, she took a deep breath, bit her bottom lip, and sent a text to Brown.

**Near Outlook, Montana. Fulcrum facility. Farmhouse and barn. Going in with CB. Mission parameters altered but on-going. **

She called up a map and dropped a pin on their location.

She and Chuck could, she hoped, get in and out on their own, but someone needed to know where they were, needed to be alerted so that the aftermath, whatever it turned out to be, could be handled.

She decided to trust Brown. It was risky, of course, but even if it went sideways, it would buy them time, at least make it look like she was still doing her job. She no longer belonged to the Company - but she could still make use of their resources while still they thought she did.

She heard Chuck rummaging in the trunk. Her phone glowed.

**Got it. Satellite being re-trained. Scrambling cleaner team. No one nearby though.**

**Intersect?**

Sarah stared at the question mark, its prefatory word.

**With us. Using it to locate Fulcrum. **

Sarah checked the rearview.

Brown: **So, no termination?**

She answered: **No, give us an hour. **

Brown: **Okay. Will report to Graham that mission is on-going. Good luck. Take care of yourselves.**

Sarah blinked at the last line. 'Yourselves'? What did Brown know? How much had he pieced together? She gazed out the window for a second, second-guessing herself.

She put her phone back in her bag and shoved the bag under the seat.

She got out to tell Chuck what she had done, and to explain.

* * *

Brown looked at the texts on his computer screen. Chuck was doing what Brown hoped, taking the fight to Fulcrum. And Walker was with him. Very good. _The game is afoot._

Brown picked up the phone and called Graham.

"Brown?" Groggy tone.

"Yes, sir. Word in from Walker. She has found Bartowski and the Intersect."

Graham's groggy voice suddenly sounded awake. "Excellent. Has she terminated him?"

"Not yet, but she has the situation under control. We should know more soon."

"Excellent," Graham repeated, relief now present in his voice. "Make sure she understands that once the Intersect is secure, Bartowski dies."

Brown closed his eyes. "Yes, sir." Graham hung up. He did not text Walker again, but he forwarded the pinned location to John Casey.

* * *

Chuck bent down, lifting the trunk lid, when he saw a faint light from inside the car. He bent down further, squatting. Through the opening between the lid and the hood, he saw Sarah, her phone aglow, texting.

_~I can't trust her. ~She cannot be trusted. ~She is working against me. No, she is doing something to help me. ~No, or she would have told me. ~Watch her._

Chuck watched Sarah put her phone back in her purse and shove her purse under the seat. She got out.

Chuck stood beside the open trunk, tense.

"Everything's okay?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, fine," Chuck said, then paused, "just preparing myself for the inevitable."

* * *

Chuck's shoulders were hunched again and his voice had changed, hardened. The words of explanation Sarah had planned to offer stuck in her throat.

She did not want to tell him when he was like this...unlike himself - again. She'd tell him when he was less...hunched, more Chuck.

He had gotten the gallon can of gas and was holding it in his hand. He shook it, the gasoline could be heard sloshing inside. "I have mine."

Sarah got spare magazines from the briefcase in the trunk, a silencer. She grabbed a heavy flashlight from another bag.

Chuck gestured to her. "That'll do. As far as I - the Intersect - can tell, there are mostly scientist-types here. Only a few who might be guards, folks who know how to fight, use guns."

"How do you - the Intersect - know all this, Chuck? I thought it was all data. You have _Fulcrum_ data?"

Chuck shook his head. "Not as such, I don't think. But I have all sorts of data that the NSA collects but that no one looks at. And I - the Intersect - see patterns in it, organize it. It's not like I draw deductive conclusions," Chuck's voice became oddly professorial, "or am simply drawing inductive conclusions. It's more like what C. S. Pierce called 'abduction' - not the best term in our circumstances, I admit. Piercian abduction is a search strategy, generating promising explanatory hypotheses…"

"Chuck," Sarah interjected, "I'd be happy to hear this some other time, but you are the one who said we needed to do this tonight…"

Chuck looked chagrined. His shoulders hunched again - they had relaxed during the lecture - and his face became sharp.

"Right, You're right. Sorry." Chuck started toward the farmhouse through the dark cornfield. He dropped down into the posture taught at the Farm - the CIA's farm - for covering ground in potentially hostile terrain. Sarah did a double-take. The posture was not so idiosyncratic that Chuck's assuming it was impossible, but it struck Sarah forcibly.

The things that happened after the flashes...Chuck's talking...His apparent listening...The odd episodes of not knowing or not quite knowing...All Intersect caused. But what exactly was happening inside him? And then she thought of his earlier smile, one the meaning of which she did not understand. He smiled it when he said "Invoice in my head." It had been an explanation but it was also sort of a joke, she realized. _Invoice. Voice. "Voice in my head." _Was the Intersect _talking _to Chuck? Was that possible? His joke about being crazy…

Of course, a supercomputer stuffed with an unimaginable googol of data and emailed into someone's brain...that was not possible either.

...They had left the impossible behind long ago. They were now traveling MoPop's infinite worlds of science fiction...

Maybe the Intersect was telling him how to crouch, move. Maybe it was telling him all sorts of things. The Intersect talking to Chuck. Talky flashes. It made sense. Of everything. _Abductively._

"Chuck," Sarah whispered, drawing almost even with him in a final row of corn before the open ground between the field and the barn, "what did your dad do when your mom met him? I mean, other than Intersect stuff?"

Chuck gave her a flat look and a flat whisper. "Now? You want to know now?"

Sarah simply nodded. "Dad taught at UCLA. He had a joint appointment in computer science, mathematics, and philosophy. They didn't know where to put AI folks in those days."

"So he gave lectures?"

This time it was Chuck who simply nodded. "Are we done with this? I can tell you later."

"Yes, Chuck, we're good."

Chuck turned to study the barn. Sarah looked at him, his head.

_What's going on in there? Is it possible that the Intersect is communicating with you, not just delivering data...but more...that it came packaged with what your dad knew, his data, as well as all the intelligence data? And the posture shifts, the...confusions...somehow...your dad too?_

She was not sure.

Sarah did not doubt that Chuck, given his mind and his education, given his time with his father when younger, could know of C. S. Pierce. It was the tone of the delivery, the lecture-tone, that made Sarah wonder. That tone was an occupational hazard for professors, too easy to slip into, too easy to use. Comfortable, discouraging discussion. Chuck had never been a professor, a lecturer. His dad had.

Sarah was not sure how to explain the possibility to herself, what was going on in Chuck psychologically or physiologically, but she felt like she had a promising hypothesis. Chuck seemed worst right after flashes but better later, especially when interacting with her. She needed to keep him focused on her. At the moment, that was going to be hard. Impossible.

"We are going to need to split up," Chuck noted emotionlessly as he examined the barn.

* * *

Earlier, Saturday night

* * *

Zondra saw no external surveillance on the building. The building seemed to stand in a pool of black as darkness fell. No streetlights were nearby. The only light was the faint glow from the basement window.

Zondra, her gun in two hands, her arms extended but the gun pointed toward the ground, moved as quickly as the darkness and her soreness would allow. She worked her way to the back of the building. No one was in sight. She listened carefully, slowing her breathing, but heard nothing. The backdoor was a heavy metal affair, covered in graffiti, but a quick look convinced Zondra that the graffiti was...fake. Whoever had painted it had tried to imitate graffiti but lacked a street artist's flair. _Graffiti-by-number. Spies. But who?_

She checked around the door for signs of electronic alarms but could find nothing. She then tried the knob on the off-chance that the door was open. It wasn't. She took out her lock-picking tools and bent down, concentrating.

A few moments later, the door was unlocked. She stowed the tools quickly and picked up her gun from beside her feet. She stepped back although still in a crouch, just enough for the door to swing open. She slowly opened it. The hallway beyond was dark. She waited for a moment longer, listening, and letting her eyes fully adjust to the dark.

Slowly, she made out shapes. The hallway ran on for some length before ending in another door, a wooden one apparently. Bits of paper and debris littered the hallway. Obviously, the door Zondra had opened was not one often used.

She crept in on her toes, pulling the door closed behind her and careful to avoid the debris on the floor. She kept watching for any kind of trap or, more likely, warning device. She saw nothing. She reached the wooden door. After examining it and finding nothing, she tried the knob. It opened. She pulled the door toward her an inch or so and looked into another hallway. This one had a clean tile floor that looked recently polished in the faint light from beneath the door on its opposite end. There was also light, even fainter, above the door's knob.

Although she listened as she passed the doors on the side of the hallway, she otherwise ignored them. No lights shone from beneath any. The hallway had a faint, familiar odor. Zondra finally recognized it as the odor of a dorm in college. She realized the rooms were likely bedrooms, maybe one a bathroom. The door on the hallway's end was obviously locked. A keypad was mounted above the knob and it glowed with a faint green light, just enough to make out the numbers on the keys.

Zondra sighed silently. She had nothing to use to overcome this obstacle. She could shoot the lock and open the door but that would undoubtedly announce her presence. As she weighed her options, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, approaching it. She stepped to the side, so that the door would open between her and the person coming through. She heard the sound of a keypad on the opposite side of the door, muffled, a little like the sound of dialing a cell phone, then heard the door unlock. She waited, controlling her breathing. The door opened and a second later a man walked through it.

Zondra reached up and hammered the pommel of her gun down on the man's vagus nerve. Her aim was true; he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. She left him there, _no time for anything else - have to trust my luck, _and she checked beyond the door.

There was a stairway leading down, softly lit. She looked back at the man; he had not stirred. She left the door open and started down the stairs, picking up her pace but still in silence.

At the bottom of the one flight of stairs was another door, closed. It opened when she turned the handle. She stood, blinking, looking down another hallway. It must have extended well beyond the building. Perhaps to an exit in another building. There were a number of doors, but the one closest to her was open. She moved toward it. When she was close enough, she peeked inside: a computer monitor and a plush desk chair. On the monitor were Eleanor Bartowski and her bearded sidekick, seated glumly on the floor of what seemed an empty room. They were talking, audible through the monitor.

"C'mon, Ellie, just to pass the time." Morgan was whining. "What sandwich would you take with you to a desert island?"

Ellie gave Morgan a disbelieving look. "How would I end up on a desert island with nothing but a sandwich?"

Morgan got a faraway look in his eyes. Ellie frowned. "I said 'with nothing but a sandwich', Morgan, _not _'with nothing _on _but a sandwich'..."

Morgan shook his head and blushed.

Zondra realized she could hear the conversation in unbalanced stereo, from the monitor, loud but clear, but also from down the hallway, muted and unclear. She hurried to the door the voices seemed to be behind. It was locked but from the outside, Zondra's side. She shoved her gun in her crowded belt, took a deep breath, unlocked and opened the door. She stepped inside.

Eleanor - Ellie - looked up and then scrambled to her feet in a dead panic. "You! _Bitch_!"

Morgan launched himself at Zondra, bulleting from his seated position as if levitated. She was ready for him this time, though, and she danced aside like a cat and he rushed past her and slammed hard into the wall. "Hey! Ow!" He slid down the wall slowly, like sap down a maple tree.

"I'm here to help you, not hurt you," Zondra pleaded, her hands up, obviously empty but waving them for emphasis..

Ellie was panting but she looked at Zondra's empty hands; some of the panic seemed to drain her. "_Help_? You were going to _kill_ me."

"Think so?" Zondra asked, a genuine question, as she turned and held out a hand to Morgan, helping him up.

He stared at her, dazed and confused. Impulsively, she leaned down and gave him a peck on his bearded cheek, letting her question go unanswered. "Thanks for earlier. You...saved me too. And, by the way, the right answer is obviously roast beef skyscrapered on pumpernickel, slathered with mayo and weighted with a thick slice of heirloom tomato."

Morgan licked his lips and grinned wide in almost complete disbelief. Ellie made a gurgling sound between laughing and choking. Morgan, still holding Zondra's hand and staring at her, rapt, nodded. "Excellent choice. _Excellent_. But the mayo...there's a refrigeration problem…"

"Well, _Morgan_?..." - she asked, waiting, he nodded - "I was planning to _eat_ it, not store it."

Morgan looked lost for a second. Then found. "Huh. I have been playing that game for so long I forgot why I would _want _a sandwich on a desert island. But you're right, I wouldn't curate it; I would eat it." He let go of Zondra's hand slowly, with obvious reluctance. She looked at him for a moment.

Zondra turned around. "Earlier, Ellie, that was a...mistake. I'm going to get you out of here."

Ellie, her eyes still guarded and still focused on Zondra's empty hands, groused: "Out of the frying pan, into the fire?"

Zondra shook her head. "I'm Zondra Rizzo. I work for the CIA. Bryce Larkin did, but he is a rogue agent. I'm here to get you away from him and to safety."

Ellie spat on the floor. "Larkin. Larkin's a son-of-a-bitch; he is holding us here. Okay, Zondra Rizzo. So we go with you. Can you get me to Sarah Walker and to my brother, before that thing in his head kills him, or worse?"

Zondra had half-forgotten Ellie's mention of Sarah Walker earlier. Now Zondra's eyes grew wide. "Wait. You really know Sarah Walker?" Ellie nodded. "And your _brother_ is with her?"

"Yes, _with-with_ her, if you know what I mean?"

Zondra thought about the Sarah she knew, the Enforcer, the Ice Queen, Zondra's accuser. The Sarah Walker who was always, always alone. "I'm not sure I do, but when we get out of here, I want to hear the story. A thing in your brother's head? Hurry, we've wasted too much time already."

* * *

Chuck told Sarah his plan. He had representations of the farm in his head - blueprints and satellite photos. He knew where things were, outside the barn, anyway. He had an idea of the hardware inside.

No lights were on in the farmhouse or the barn. No noise. No birds sang. No cricket chirped. All was quiet near Outlook. All except the wind, which had begun to strengthen and whip around them, making the cornstalks sway like shoegaze dancers.

A few yards behind the barn was a fuel tank, used to fuel the farm equipment. Chuck was going to go to the tank use the gas can to try to start an explosion. Sarah was to use the explosion as a distraction and to get inside the barn. Chuck would then circle around and enter after her. The hope was to make it to the elevator Chuck was sure was inside the barn, the elevator down to the labs...or whatever was down there, beneath the barn.

Sarah had agreed to the plan but she seemed reluctant to let him go.

~_She's afraid to let me out of her sight, let the Intersect get any distance from her. ~She's not here _for _me. ~She's here for _it. ~_She's protecting it for the CIA, her boss, Graham. No, she's protecting me. I think she...loves...me. I...love...her. ~She loves her gun. ~She loves the danger, the chase, the adrenaline, the blood. ~Even if she loves me, I'll never rank as high as the job. ~She will always choose the job. No, she's chosen me. ~Who was she texting?_

_I don't know. ~I don't know her. _

Sarah squeezed Chuck's hand just before he started across the open ground to the barn. Chuck gave her hand a half-squeeze in return and headed toward the barn.

"Chuck, I…" she started, but he left her. He glanced back at her after a few steps and she still seemed like she was going to say something but he did not go back.

* * *

Sarah watched Chuck go, again struck by his movement, its apparent ease, comfort, even confidence. Like a spy. Chuck was not a spy. Perhaps he was, in some sense, a natural, but even a natural took time to acclimate to spying - Sarah was (sad) proof of that.

As she watched Chuck make his way to the barn, she recalled other things: his driving of the Nerd Herder from the Buy More when they first saw each other, the confidence, even the slight swagger in his note to her in the Tarzana house, in the text interactions after he defused the bomb in Mt. Shasta City, in his walk toward and kiss of Carina when he saved her at the station, his cleverness in forcing Sarah twice through the metal detector at MoPop...

She knew Chuck was clever. She had seen his record at Stanford before the expulsion, his IQ scores from high school testing. Off the charts. He was more than clever. But all those things he had done, so fast, with so little preparation, all done so naturally…but all things that were habits, not bits of discrete information, things that took time to build...

She had meant to tell him about her text, started to, but his eyes became layered again, his shoulders hunched, and it unnerved her.

_What if the Intersect Chuck got had more than security data and data from his dad on it, what if it could confer ability, know-how, and not just information, know-that? Maybe the Intersect was doing more than telling Chuck things? What if it were changing him?_

She saw him make it to the corner of the barn. He looked up at her as he did, signaling that the rear was clear. She had no more time for thought; she had to prepare. She had to keep him alive. They had to figure this out. She was _not _going to give him up. She was _not_ going to lose him to Graham or to Fulcrum. Or to the damn Intersect. _No. _

It hit her full force, a burst of sunlight: with undeniable clarity and distinctness, with no pall of self-deception, she knew it: _I love him._

* * *

Chuck got to the fuel tank. It was operational and unlocked. He started a slow leak of gas from it. Fishing a bandana from his pocket, an impulse buy at _Tractor Supply_, he soaked most of it in the gas, leaving only the corner he was holding unwet.

He unscrewed the cap on the gas can and stood it in the growing puddle of gas on the ground. Again, carefully, he shoved the bandana down into the can.

He let it soak for a minute or so, allowing the gas fully to wet it. He wiped his hands and smelled them. They seemed not to have gas on them. He took out a pack of matches and lit one. The flame trembled in the blowing night air. Chuck cupped his hand around it then it burned steadily. He bent down and lit the bandana. Flames fanned up it. Chuck ran, the smoking match still in his hand.

He reached the corner of the barn and, dropping the match, waved to Sarah. He saw her emerge from the cornfield, sprinting, her silenced gun in her hand. He ducked around the corner. Just as he did, the flames from the bandana reached the gas in the can. It exploded, and a second later the fuel tank exploded too. The ground shook. Around the corner from the explosion, Chuck was not vulnerable to the heat or any shrapnel. He started toward the front of the barn at a lope, the blowing night air intensifying in strength.

Lights came on in the farmhouse. As Chuck rounded the front corner of the barn, he saw one of the two large doors standing partially open.

* * *

Sarah was sprinting in the moonlight. She heard the explosion behind the barn just as she got to the front barn doors. They were closed. She lifted the heavy wooden latch and swung the door open, slipping inside.

The interior was dark, but she heard two voices, men.

"What the hell?"

"Stand your post. I'll call Joe up and then I will go outside. Hit the lights"

The first voice came from Sarah's left, at her level. The second from her right, but up above, from what appeared to be a hay loft. Sarah squatted down, her gun raised, pointed in the direction of the first voice.

The light clicked on. Sarah had triangulated correctly. Her gun was trained on the first man, who stood in front of an old red tractor on the left-hand side of the barn. She snapped off a shot before his eyes even focused on her and he fell to his knees, then pitched forward. The peculiar cough of her silenced pistol was loud enough for the other man, above her in the loft, to be aware of her presence.

As she finished squeezing the trigger of her first shot, she rolled to her left. She heard a shot ring out but it missed her. Bits of concrete fell on her. She finished her roll by coming back up on her knees, her balance reacquired immediately. Since he could see to fire at her, she could do the same. He had not had time to duck. She squeezed her trigger a second time. Her shot tattooed his forehead with an inky hole, and he collapsed forward, limp all over, no attempt to break his fall. He tumbled off the loft, thudded on the rough concrete floor of the barn.

Sarah heard an intake of breath from behind her. She twisted around, gun up, smoke rising from the end of the silencer. Chuck was standing in the doorway, staring at the broken corpse beneath the loft. He turned his head, as if in slow motion, from it to her, staring at her. He mouthed a name beneath his breath, but it was not 'Sarah'. It was 'Mary'.

Sarah stared back at him in shock.

Pounding footsteps tore their eyes from one another. _Joe, the other guard_. The footsteps were coming from beneath the loft. Sarah remained on her knees and retrained her gun on the door beneath the loft. It burst open. She fired. Joe took a step forward, then a step back. He brought his gun up. Sarah fired again. He fell backward onto the stairs and rolled noisily down.

Before she could get up, Chuck had reached the corpse of the man from the loft. He grabbed the man's gun and started down the stairs.

"Chuck!" Sarah whisper-shouted at his back. He disappeared.

Sarah got up and raced after him.

* * *

_~She is a killer. ~Not a woman. ~Not a girlfriend. ~She is a spy. ~_This_, this is her in her element. ~Death in her hands. ~Death deliverer. ~This is not a woman who can build a life with me. ~She destroys life, she does not build it. I love her. ~It doesn't matter; it will change nothing; it will not change her. ~Loving her will destroy me. _

_~Now, destroy Fulcrum's Intersect. _

Chuck saw the gun on the ground. He scooped it up and plunged down the stairs. He heard Sarah call his name but he neither slowed nor answered.

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs was a long hallway. Sarah saw Chuck ahead of her. He had passed three doors, one on the left side of the hall, the others on the right, and was marching toward the hallway's end. Two more doors were there, facing each other. Sarah stopped at the door on the right to check it; she was not going to leave their rear exposed. It was an office. The first door on the right was a communications room, jammed with equipment of various kinds. The second opened on a medical room containing an examination table and various medical machines.

When she looked up, Chuck was going into the final door at the end of the hall, the one on right, and as he opened the door she could see the word 'Lab' in neat letters on it. She hurried to the end of the hall but made herself stop at the door on the left. It was made of steel, grey and solid. It had a keyhole in it. Sarah ran back to the other end of the hallway. Joe had rolled into the hallway from the stairs, off to the side. Sarah searched him quickly and found a ring of keys.

She ran back to the door and tried various keys. Of course, it was the final one she tried that fit. She turned the lock and, holding her gun at the ready, she opened the door.

* * *

Chuck stopped as the entered the room. It was full of the very latest computers and tech, many of the items he had only read about, sometimes treated as tech mythology. After one quick, wondering look around, he went to the main keyboard and sat down.

He took the flash drive he was going to pretend was the Intersect out of his pocket and he put it in the machine. He started the computer. As he expected, a password was needed. He had a workaround. _I do? _

Chuck put the gun down and his fingers began to fly over the keyboard. Much of what he was doing he did not fully understand, not until he had done it, but he moved in cyberspace with absolute confidence, a digital gymnast. In a few seconds, he was in. His fingers paused. He stared at his own hands like they were strangers, then they started, he started, typing again. He located the Intersect program and began downloading it onto the flash drive. As that was happening, he scanned the programs on the computers and found what he wanted. A self-destruct program. He set it for five minutes. He got up, grabbed the gun, pulled the flash drive free just as the download finished. He fired the gun twice into the heart of the computer, its hard drive, and he left the room.

Sarah had just opened the door opposite the lab door. Chuck saw her step into the dark room. He caught a whiff of something. Sarah reached for her flashlight and clicked it on.

Chained to the wall on the far side of the room was a woman. There was a tray of old food near her on the ground and a bucket on her other side. Her hair, grey, extended down in clumped, oily strands. Her head was hanging limply, and at first, Chuck thought she was asleep or unconscious - even dead. But her head lifted, slowly.

* * *

Sarah held the light steadily on the woman. The woman lifted her head, squinting into the light. Sarah heard Chuck behind her.

"_Mary_?!" Chuck's voice, choked, in agony, sounding wrong.

"_Mom_!?" Chuck's voice, uncertain, in disbelief, sounding right.

Sarah gasped and finished the chorus involuntarily. "_Frost_?"

The woman looked at them, shrinking from the bright light. "Huh? Do you smell smoke?"

Sarah heard Chuck collapse behind her.

* * *

A/N1: Welcome to the heart of Book Two. Drop me a line - keeps me working when I am interacting with readers.

* * *

A/N2: Since a couple of folks have mentioned the spatiotemporal jumps, a comment: the jumps are here for a reason, and most of the juxtaposed scenes stand in internal relationships, logical relationships, to each other. I am not jumping about for amusement or as some misguided narratival display. I am trying to enrich events, to add contrapuntally to their meaning, not merely to shift narration from one set of events to another. Admittedly, I do not explain the relationships. I do not write intending to spare my reader the trouble of thinking.

I may be failing, but I am failing at something worth trying, not at something unworth trying. Consider James Gould Cozzens' _Guard of Honor._

Speaking of trying things, I know that what is happening with Chuck is confusing. I have been writing so that the reader inhabits Chuck's confusion (and inhabits Sarah's puzzlement). The goal is for the reader to experience a degree of it himself or herself. All will be made clear eventually (at least in terms of the fiction).

* * *

A/N3: One final thing. Let's forget the Friday posting schedule, at least as official. I may still take it as an unofficial target, but I will post when I have something ready. That works best for me.

Many thanks to Beckster1213 for pre-reading.

Chapter Theme: _Missie How You Let Me Down, _Richard Thompson


	21. Chapter 19: Barn Razing: Part Three

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

My intended plan for chapters got chopped up because of relocating from Barcelona and because of the business of final grading. This is the final installment of what I have turned into three separate chapters. (This chapter and the last three chapters were intended to be two chapters.) The intended rhythm will pick back up with the next chapter.

* * *

_Zondra thought about the Sarah she knew, the Enforcer, the Ice Queen, Zondra's accuser. The Sarah Walker who was always, always alone. "I'm not sure I do, but when we get out of here, I want to hear the story. A thing in your brother's head? Hurry, we've wasted too much time already."_

"_Mary?!" Chuck's voice, choked, in agony, sounding wrong.  
_"_Mom!?" Chuck's voice, uncertain, in disbelief, sounding right.  
__Sarah gasped and finished the chorus involuntarily. "Frost?"  
__The woman looked at them, shrinking from the bright light. "Huh? Do you smell smoke?"  
__Sarah heard Chuck collapse behind her. _

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

**Barn Razing: Part Three**

* * *

Sunday night

* * *

Brown's hands were clenched into fists.

He was bent forward toward his monitor, unblinking. The satellite image showed the farm near Outlook. Something was burning - a fuel tank, it seemed. Not just the fuel tank. The wind must have gained in strength because the fire had traveled and was now burning the rear of the barn.

"C'mon, Sarah, Chuck, get the hell out of there!"

Brown was not sure they were inside; the satellite image had been available too late. It seemed likely though, and Brown's gut told him they were. He could do nothing but wait. He had scrambled a cleaner team and a couple of agents but they would not arrive for a while yet - more than an hour. Casey and Carina were still about a day behind so they could not help. It was up to Sarah and Chuck.

"C'mon!"

* * *

Saturday night

* * *

Bryce slammed his cell phone down on the narrow desk.

He and Jill were still at a small, private airfield near LA. He had expected his CIA informant, a good Fulcrum man, to be able to tell him where to find Walker, and so where to find Chuck. But he had been waiting for hours and still had no direction for a flight.

He watched as Jill walked to him. She put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently. She knew he had stitches there, under his shirt, so she was careful. She had been with him since he woke up after the explosion at Orion's, Stephen Bartowski's, lab, overseeing his medical care, taking care of him.

"We'll know something soon. If Ellie is right, and Sarah is _with-w_…" - Bryce gave Jill a look - "...if they are together, then Sarah may be rogue herself." Jill ill-suppressed a smirk. "Chuck would have managed in days, maybe hours, what you couldn't manage in months."

Bryce fought to keep his hand down, to keep from slapping her right there. Bryce was the better man - and Jill knew it, or ought to know it. She chose him over Chuck long ago. She did. _She did. _"No way. She's playing him; I've told you. She's the best _female _spy I know; she has complete control over her heart. She may not even have one, a lucky birth defect for a spy." Bryce smirked at Jill. She pressed her lips into a thin line and turned away.

Bryce's phone rang. His analyst had information. A photograph from a gas station along I-90E. Bryce looked at the out-of-focus image. It was almost certainly Chuck and Sarah.

_I-90E? Why? _Bryce reviewed what he knew about Chuck's trajectory. Before he and Jill left the LA Fulcrum safehouse, he had re-established contact with Fulcrum headquarters.

Chuck had ruined the planned attack in Mt. Shasta City, destroyed the crucial drug ring run by Smithers in Seattle. _Goddamn him. What was going on? _He was supposed to download the Intersect and to be waiting when Bryce came to find him, moldering in the Buy More as Bryce had known he would after Stanford. Chuck was such a predictable loser.

Except he was _not_ such a predictable loser. For five years, Chuck had jailed himself so that Bryce did not have to, shut himself inside his own passive anger, his aggressive self-hatred. Why had the Intersect changed him? Or had Bryce misjudged him? _No. _Or, could Jill be right, could it be Sarah who had changed him? _No. _What Chuck had done was impossible - impossible for Chuck Bartowski, the professional nerd. He was acting like a spy, a good one. It made no sense at all. The Intersect was all data - and Chuck was...all Chuck.

Bryce thought for a moment. There were multiple Fulcrum agents, activities and locations along or near the western portions of I-90E. Chuck's pattern was clearly targeting Fulcrum. Bryce thought of the farmhouse in Outlook. But, no. That was impossible. The Intersect could not be leading Chuck there. That place was safely hidden in plain sight. Every possible effort had been made to make it look like what it wasn't. A farm hosting a trial COBA station. There had been no indication that the farmhouse had fallen under any suspicion.

Bryce ground his teeth. _It had better not. It was too important. There are things there even Jill knows nothing about. _No, it was more likely the on-going Fulcrum activities in Bozeman. Bryce retrieved his phone and called the pilot. Time to get into the air. Time to get to Bozeman.

* * *

Jill knew she had barely escaped a blow. She would have had to stand and take it. That was how things between them worked. He could not get past the fact that her seduction of Chuck at Stanford, a seduction he chose her for, trained her for and orchestrated in detail, including her 'meet cute' with Chuck, - that her seduction of Chuck had rebounded on her emotionally, that she had fallen for Chuck, hard and complete.

She had tried to hide it from Bryce but she had failed. He had seen it all on miniature camera and she had not been able to hide the fact that she was not faking it. He knew. He watched. Then he made her watch with him. She still did not entirely understand his hatred of Chuck, what it was grounded in, why it burned in him so intensely, even after all these years, even after she had given Chuck up and became Bryce's.

He had made her pay over the years, made her watch his seduction of Sarah Walker and of others. He never again asked her to do that, perform that sort of seduction, but he made her suffer through his doing of it when he thought it was...important. He had put on an extra show with Walker, Jill was sure, just to hurt Jill, to punish her for Chuck. It had worked, and Jill now felt about Walker much as Bryce felt about Chuck. Except she knew Walker was, in this respect anyway, blameless. Bryce had discovered how lonely Walker was and had tried to exploit it, had exploited it, although not successfully. He had had plans for Walker, maybe even had developed some feeling for her, and Walker had slipped from his grasp, proving that his smile was not omnipotent.

Bryce had not forgiven Walker for that. Ellie had reminded him of it when she had resisted it as well.

Jill grabbed her bag. Bozeman. Maybe, if things worked out, Jill would be there when Bryce killed Walker, or maybe she would even be able to kill Walker herself. Two birds, one stone. A dead Walker and some payback to Bryce for Chuck, and what he had done to Jill because of Chuck.

_And if Walker was really with-with Chuck, well, Walker would need to pay for that._ _Chuck was supposed to be pining for her. That thought had warmed Jill during the cold years since Stanford._

* * *

Morgan was gazing at Zondra. She was standing in her black t-shirt and kevlar vest, her black pants. With her crowded belt around her slim waist, she looked like Batgirl. _Really like Batgirl. _It was the first time Morgan could remember being in a room with Ellie and any other woman and not having eyes only for Ellie. Morgan could not, at that moment, have even pointed to exactly where Ellie stood in the room. Zondra, dressed like that, was..._evocative_.

Morgan finally made himself look at Ellie. She was watching Zondra closely, still obviously wary of the woman. Zondra looked at Ellie then at Morgan and pulled her gun from her belt. She kept it pointed at the ground. "Okay, let's see if we can reverse my course and get out of this place. How many people did you see while you've been here?"

"Four," Ellie answered. "Bryce, Jill Robertson, and two...henchmen, I guess."

Zondra nodded once. "Weapons?"

Ellie shrugged. "Didn't see any, although I am pretty sure the henchmen were packing…"

Morgan piped up. "Packing?"

Ellie shrugged again. "Isn't that the term?"

Morgan shrugged. "I guess so. How'd you know? They both had on jackets."

"Yeah, but there was a bulge beneath the arm for both, so either they have remarkably similar tumors, or they had guns in shoulder holsters."

Zondra whistled low, cutting off the conversation. "I think I knocked one out on the way in; he won't be out for long. We really do need to hurry. Follow me."

They left the room and went out into the hallway. Just as they did, they heard footfalls, multiple footfalls, from the distant end of the hallway. Zondra turned to face whatever was coming. "You two, go! I'll cut them off."

Morgan stepped forward and turned to face whatever was coming beside Zondra. She noticed, smiled a small smile. But at that moment, he felt Ellie yank his collar, hard, and he went backpedaling away from Zondra.

"C'mon, Morgan, you can't take a beard to a gunfight, no matter how brave you are."

Morgan looked back and saw a group of men running toward them but still at a distance down the long hallway. Zondra grabbed something from her belt with one hand, and half-tossed, half-bowled it down the hallway.

She was up and running toward them as it skipped down the hall. "Look away! Run!"

Morgan followed Ellie through the door but stopped at the stairs. The was a loud sound from behind, but Zondra was through the door before it happened, and so it was muted. She grinned at Morgan. "Flashbang." He grinned back but had no idea what she was talking about. Her brown eyes were flashing; that was enough to make him grin - and grin some more.

They ran up the stairs. Ellie was now ahead of them. When they got to the top, they heard a voice. "Stop, or I will kill her."

The man Zondra had knocked out had Ellie wrapped in his grasp, a gun to her head. Morgan looked at Zondra. Her return look was a command. _Let me handle this! _

Zondra put her hands up. "Don't. Don't hurt her. We surrender." She turned deliberately to look at Morgan. The man involuntarily followed her look. Still looking at Morgan, Zondra's hand whipped down and up and there was muffled pop. The man let go of Ellie and the gun. Ellie stood free; the gun hit the floor; the man involuntarily followed it. Blood began to puddle immediately behind his head, deep red.

Ellie turned to look at the man then turned white to Zondra. "Okay. Um, thanks, Zondra."

Zondra did not speak. She looked at Morgan; he was overwhelmed, foot-glued to the floor, brain-locked. She pushed Morgan forward toward the exit. "Go!"

They emerged from the building. Zondra turned and flung another flashbang down the hall before slamming the door shut. "Follow me."

They ran for a block or so in the dark. Zondra led but it was not hard to keep up. Morgan realized she was limping and that she was favoring her shoulder. He thought about ramming into her on his bike; he had hurt her. She was still hurting.

They reached a car and Zondra pressed a button on her belt. Morgan heard the car doors unlock. Morgan's brain unlocked too.

_Batgirl. _

* * *

Sunday

* * *

Chuck looked at the woman. He knew her. Knew her. Impossible.

Mary.

Mom.

Frost.

Love and hate and pain and unbearable longing. She was dead. She was alive.

His head went into a tailspin. _Vertigo. Scottie Ferguson, falling from a height. Hitchcock. Falling. Spinning. Impossible. Vertigo._

Blackness.

* * *

Sarah whipped around. Chuck was sprawled on the floor. She ran to him, putting her gun in her pants. He was breathing, shallow, but steady. She felt his pulse.

"Who are you? Who is that? Did he know me?" The woman. Frost. "I tell you, I smell smoke."

Sarah, still checking Chuck, turned her head. "Are you Frost?"

"I haven't been called that in a long time, but yes."

"This is your son, Frost. This is Chuck Bartowski."

The woman gasped. "Oh, my God. I haven't seen him since he was little. Is that really him or is this some trick of Larkin's?"

"Larkin? Bryce Larkin?"

Mary spat. "Yes, Bryce Larkin. Fulcrum son of a bitch. My captor. My...tormentor. But I haven't seen him in a while. I was hoping, praying even, he was _dead, painfully dead_.

"I tell you: I smell smoke."

Just as Mary finished, a red light began to whir in the hallway. Some kind of warning, an alarm. Sarah touched Chuck's cheek then jumped up and ran to Mary. She handed Mary the flashlight and figured out which key unlocked the chains on her wrists. There were chains for her feet too but they were not on her.

Freed, Mary stood. She did not seem as frail standing up. Her arms were corded with muscle. She had on a grimy dark t-shirt and dark pants, no shoes. Sarah could now smell it too. Smoke. What was burning?

The barn!

"C'mon, Frost, we have to get Chuck out of here now!"

Mary sprang into action. She ran to Chuck and slipped her hands under his arms. Sarah grabbed his feet. She could see tendrils of smoke now - it was available to her eyes as well as her nose.

"Guards?" Mary asked.

"Dead," Sarah answered as she lifted Chuck's legs. They started down the hallway.

"It must be the self-destruct," Mary offered, looking at the siren and grunting under Chuck's weight, then staring down into his face as they entered the light. "My son..."

"No time, Mary."

"Who are you?" Mary was now staring at Sarah, backpedaling down the hallway.

"Sarah Walker."

Mary stopped. "Why are _you _with my son, Sarah Walker?"

"No time, Mary. Help me. He's...he's my guy."

Mary blinked and studied her for a split second, then started up the stairs. The smoke was now heavy, choking, and Sarah realized how hot it was getting as they ascended.

Atop the stairs, they met the inferno.

The barn was ablaze. The wall where the fire started was almost consumed but flames were everywhere. They had no choice but to cross to the door. Luckily, the concrete floor could not burn. The barn door was still cracked open but it was burning too. They worked their way across the floor, Chuck suspended between them. A rafter fell where they had just been, sparks flying up and around them. Sarah felt some land on her, felt them burn her flesh. She saw Mary grimace, not just from the flames but from the heat of the floor on her bare feet. But she kept moving.

As soon as Mary had maneuvered past the burning door, and Chuck was outside the barn, Sarah put his feet down and grabbed her gun. Mary's eyes narrowed and Sarah saw her brace herself. But Sarah spun around, checking around them.

No one was there. She could see red taillights in the distance. The scientists in the farmhouse had evacuated, gone.

"Fucking Fulcrum cowards. Larkin-trained, that's for sure." Mary was still holding Chuck's shoulders off the ground. "Get his feet, we need to get clear of this deathtrap."

Sarah stowed her gun again and picked up Chuck's feet. They carried him away from the barn.

* * *

Brown saw the cars leave the farmhouse. No one had entered the barn. It was in full flame now. He leaned even closer to the monitor as if he could enter it and help. A moment later, two women came out, carrying a man. Chuck. One of the women was Sarah. The other woman...who was she? She looked familiar but there was no way to get a closer look from the satellite. It was as focused-in as it would go. The women stopped for a moment, then they picked Chuck up. They worked their way to a distance from the barn. It exploded. Brown could hear nothing but his imagination supplied the sound. The women fell, Sarah stretching herself across Chuck.

For a moment, the brightness of the explosion blanked the satellite image. When it cleared, the women were getting to their feet. The barn was gone, leaving only a flaming hole in the ground. But they were safe! Brown fell back in his chair, exhausted. After a few seconds, he made himself sit forward. He placed an emergency call to the nearest fire station, a considerable distance away. The women were both on their knees, tending to Chuck.

* * *

Saturday

* * *

Zondra raced the car. Morgan, beside her in the front, gripped the armrest and shut his eyes. He thought Zodra might notice, so he opened them, looked around. Ellie, in the backseat, watched Zondra as she drove.

After a few minutes, Zondra slowed the car. She drove on for a while. Morgan was watching her and waiting for someone to speak. Finally, Zondra did.

"So, Ellie, will you tell me how you and your brother know Sarah Walker? She and I used to...work together, years ago. We were friends."

"Were?" Ellie asked, her voice suspicious.

"Yes, _were. _It's a long story. I may tell you, but first I need to know about you and your brother, about Sarah. I have a feeling I have entered a story I don't fully understand and I can't decide what to do until I know what is really going on."

Zondra wheeled the car into a supermarket parking lot. She found a dark spot beneath a light that did not work and parked. When she shut off the engine, silence gripped the car. Morgan turned to look at Ellie. She was clearly thinking, weighing her options. He saw her shoulders finally relax.

"It all started on Chuck's birthday. That's my brother, Chuck Bartowski. He got an email from Bryce Larkin…"

Morgan watched the two women as Ellie told the story and Zondra listened, asking occasional questions. As the story progressed, it seemed to Morgan that Zondra understood it in a way that neither he nor Ellie did. Eventually, Ellie finished with Jill leaving their cell, the last event before Zondra found them.

Zondra turned from Ellie and got her phone. She sent a text. Morgan watched her and so did Ellie. Another silence. Then her phone lit up and she read a response. She started the car. "I need to find a safe place to stay for the night. Then I have a story for you, one that I think will make your story make more sense." She flipped on the headlights and they drove out of the parking lot. Zondra shook her head as she eased into traffic. "Sarah Walker and the Intersect. Well, this is certainly no bullshit mission…or not the kind I have been doing, that's for sure."

Morgan looked at her.

_God, _he thought, _she is beautiful. Better than Batgirl._

* * *

Casey and Carina had driven straight through, taking turns driving, stopping only to go to the restroom or grab fast food. Casey regretted both, but particularly the first. He would have liked a motel room, a bed, preferably shared with Carina. But they needed to catch up with Chuck and Sarah. Other things, if they were to happen, and he had no idea if Carina was interested really, other than that grab at his inner thigh earlier, would have to wait.

They had gotten another anonymous text, telling them only to stay the course, I-90E. They were making good time to wherever it was they were going.

Casey was pondering the anonymous texts. They had to be coming from inside one of the Agencies, CIA or NSA, from someone afloat in that alphabet soup. Someone well-placed. Someone very, very good.

He and Carina were not the only ones apparently pulling for Walker and Bartowski.

_Wait. Is that what I am doing? When did I decide that? When I saw the NSA bugs in Carina's cover apartment, maybe from the moment my stomach started acting up. I have had it with duplicity, double-agents, lying. A bellyful. For once, I'd like to inhabit the clarity I felt when I was a Marine. When I knew who the good guys were and the bad guys. I help Carina help Walker and Bartowski. I have new identities stored away. Maybe Carina would come with me? Anyway, maybe I can find someplace else to be, some other life to live. This one is only going to get me killed or ruin my health. I've done my duty. I'd like to just do what I think is right._

He glanced at Carina. Even with no sleep and no real nutrition, she looked as lovely and as desirable as ever. _Stop it, John. Do what you think is right, but don't live in a pipe dream. Maybe Walker can leave this life. Maybe you can, even. Carina? No, she's not for you._

* * *

Sunday

* * *

Chuck showed no sign of coming around.

His breathing was deeper, steadier. But he remained unconscious. Sarah was still trying to rouse him. Frost was standing above them, looking down. Sarah leaned in and gave Chuck a kiss. "Chuck, it's Sarah. Come back to me. We can figure this out. We can escape this, this life. I have things I want to tell you."

Frost made a noise, skeptical. "If this is a show, I don't need it. I know who you are, Walker. You're me, redux. Don't torture yourself or him pretending you can be something you can't. You can no more leave this life than I could. And I could kill you right now for involving my son in it."

Sarah looked up, her stretched nerves snapping. She spoke in a half-growl. "Listen, Frost, _Mary_, I don't know your story, or how you ended up in that...hole, but I did not _involve_ your son in this. We both were placed in it, and we found each other." Sarah stared hard at Mary.

Frost's face softened. "I know that story, Walker. I know it. I've already lived it. Let me tell you how it ends…"

* * *

A/N: Mary, Mary, _quite _contrary.

Tune in next time as the timeline begins to re-collect and more of the overarching plot comes into view. _Drop me a line if you're invested in this_. I would love to hear from you! I have a lot of other writing projects going, so reader investment will keep this one near the top of my to-do list.

Chapter Theme: Chris Isaak, _Wicked Game_


	22. Chapter 20: Catch a Falling Star

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

An unplanned detour from our path. I had intended to provide only a moment of this but it turned into something else under my hands.

* * *

_Frost's face softened. "I know that story, Walker. I know it. I've already lived it. Let me tell you how it ends…"_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

**Catch a Falling Star**

* * *

Mary was about to continue but Sarah's blue eyes went icy and Mary stepped back.

As she did, she remembered. Not the ending but the beginning, Chuck's face so much like Stephen's when she met Stephen for the first time.

* * *

A sunny day on the UCLA campus.

Mary, much younger, was walking across campus to the building where Stephen Bartowski had his lab. She was aware of the male stares that followed her movements, particularly from behind. She had on a short skirt and heels, and a gauzy, azure blue blouse. Her blond hair, slightly curled, fell to her shoulders, and bounced slightly as she clicked along the sidewalk.

She was aware of her beauty and of its power. She was banking on it when she met Bartowski. His file presented him as an almost laughable stereotype: concept-mongering, absent-minded, lost among ordinary mortals. His photograph was, she had to admit, of a surprisingly attractive man, a man whose eyes were filled with kindness, not abstraction. She had...studied...the photograph, although one glance would have sufficed if mere identification were the issue. No matter. She had dressed to discombobulate the assistant professor. She would have the advantage from the get-go.

She entered the building, cooled by the air conditioning and the slick, almost icy look of the shining marble floors. She went down the stairs and opened a door. A long hallway reflected fluorescent lights up at themselves. She saw the number of Bartowski's lab on a door to the right.

Her heels echoed in the silent hallway, and for a split second, she felt like she had as a girl taking tap lessons. She had not thought of those lessons in years - and she could not account for the thought now, not even given her echoing heels. She had heard that echoing sound many times, on light or dark streets of cities all over the world. On the hallways of Langley. It had never before made her think of dancing. _Dancing_. She realized that her heart was beating noticeably in her chest. That too did not happen. She was Frost, coolness, and control and detachment personified, the perfect agent. She squeezed her hand into a fist, digging her red lacquered nails into her own palm to focus herself. Blowing out a slow breath, she unfisted her hand and opened Bartowski's lab door.

She looked in before crossing the threshold. The lab was a long rectangle, the door near one corner of a long wall. Across the lab, not far from where she stood, was Stephen Bartowski. She could not see his face and he had not reacted to the opening of the door, but she knew it was him.

He was hunched over a microscope, present only to what he could see through it and absent to everything else. Mary smirked to herself. _More like what I expected. _She stepped into the lab, reaching up to make sure her hair was as she had planned for his first look at her. She dropped her hand to her blouse, making sure it too was as she had planned - open at the top but not in obvious invitation.

She cleared her throat. Stephen did not react. She cleared it again. Nothing.

Then he spoke. "Sorry, but could you hand me that tray of slides beside you there, please?"

Mary saw the tray he meant and she picked it up. Still with his eyes on the microscope, he reached out and made a stab for the tray with his hand. He missed. She adjusted it, holding it higher and his hand hit it but luckily did not spill it. He got hold of it and took it from her, mumbling to himself.

"Sorry, not really my area, this microscopic stuff," he said putting the tray down beside him, "but I need to understand the brain better, and that means dipping into neurobiology. I confess, though, I still don't understand what I am looking at."

With that, he looked up from the microscope and at Mary. His green eyes met her blue ones and he leaned back slightly, away from her. She shifted her weight from the foot toward him to the one away from him. There was a strange, protracted silence in the lab, and Mary began to hear her own heartbeat in the silence. Stephen was handsome to a degree that her study of his photograph had not forecasted. In person, there was mobility and aliveness to his features that a still photograph could never capture. He gave her a kind smile, gazing into her eyes. His eyes did not drop to the open top of her blouse as she had planned, or linger over her hair or her bare legs.

She felt powerless over him and felt his power over her, wholly unexpected and intoxicating. She smiled back at him, one of her real smiles, not one of the ones she had perfected at the Farm. "I'm Mary," she finally offered, extending her hand naturally, without any forethought but with the hope of touching him. He reached out and took her hand, managing somehow to hold it for a second before shaking it. "Stephen," he offered in turn. Mary looked down at their joined hands. She felt like she was dancing. _Not good._

* * *

Mary stood in her apartment, checking herself in the mirror. Everything with Stephen was going so wrong by going so right. She was supposed to be his handler. The plan had been for her to pose as his lab assistant. She had phoned the Director, Aldous Scott, and asked to alter the plan, to instead pose as Stephen's lab assistant-turned-girlfriend.

Scott had been surprised. His thought when he sent Mary was that there would be no seduction involved. She could protect Stephen and his research while posing as his assistant. Mary, while not a stranger to seduction missions, had never sought them out. She had been willing to travel that path, even to its...promised (if unwanted) conclusion a couple of times, but she tried to avoid missions that might lead in that direction. She knew her body and its power, and she was willing to use it within limits, but she had no desire to turn it into _that _sort of weapon.

She was not attempting to turn her mission into a seduction mission, she told Scott - she just thought she could more effectively protect Stephen and his work if she were allowed more access to him.

"So," Scott had asked her on the phone, "you will be pretending, and only pretending...Nothing will be real between you?"

"That's right," Mary answered, lying to Scott for the first time - while forcing down the hope she might betray in her voice. "We will have to spend time together to maintain our cover but that should be easy enough. He has a couch and is, well, an old-fashioned sort of gentleman."

Scott chuckled. "I'm surprised he's even noticed you, to be honest, but I don't mean that as any reflection on you, agent; he seems all about his work, and, frankly, we want to encourage that. This project, this...Intersect...has great promise, even if it is only promise at the moment. I admit it sounds like pure sci-fi mumbo-jumbo to me, but my scientists here in Langley are...well, _agog_ over Bartowski's work. Only a few of them claim to understand the work - and I believe fewer really do - but they all agree it is cutting edge, ahead of its time. None claims to be able to reproduce such work. Bartowski is a lone pioneer, evidently. Way out on the cutting edge.

"So far, no one seems to have gotten wind of his work but for us. That's why it is only you who has been assigned to him - and because you are my best. We are hiding him in plain sight, securing him by using no apparent security.

"Alright, agent, you may pose as his girlfriend. What does Dr. Bartowski think of the plan?"

"I'm going to ask..tell him tonight." Mary checked herself but Scott chuckled again, evidently not noticing her slip in verbs.

Mary was satisfied with what she saw in the mirror. She had chosen a navy dress and black flats. She had on no makeup and, as for jewelry, was wearing only a pair of small gold earrings. She was not presuming on the power of her attractiveness tonight. She was going to ask Stephen Bartowski to be her boyfriend - not just as a cover but as a reality. The pretense was that it was fake, not that it was real.

Since there was no one else involved in the mission to complicate matters, Mary had decided, after seemingly endless weeks of wrestling with herself, to yield to her feelings, her desires. She knew Stephen had feelings for her, strong feelings, but he had worked heroically to hide them and to not presume in any way on what had become a genuine, if hesitant and ungainly friendship between them. Mary knew, although Stephen did not, that the problem with their friendship was that they were headed toward a nearer relationship, another form of love. At first, she had thought she would ask for re-assignment, turn Stephen over to another agent. But the thought of leaving him made her cold with fear - for him, but more for herself.

Their weeks together changed her way of feeling. _Mutavit affectum meum, _Stephen had said, when she had made an indirect reference to how different she felt, how different the things around her looked. He had told her the line was from St. Augustine. Mary knew nothing about St. Augustine - she had gone to college but had not run into that name while there. But the line was apposite. Stephen had changed her way of feeling, her way of being. She wanted to be with him, really with him. She wanted to know what it was like to love a man and be loved by him, something that would be a wholly new sensation in her life.

Mary had believed herself incapable of loving a man, incapable of loving anyone. She had accepted that, factored it into her calculations for herself. And then her eyes met Stephen's and her calculations were shown to be empty numbers, a mere formal pattern, meaning practically nothing. She woke up every morning more excited than the morning before. She almost ran to the lab. He always had a cup of coffee ready for her, waiting in the same spot, somehow always creamed and sugared exactly as she wanted, somehow always piping hot. They talked over coffee and then he went to work. He tried to explain what he was doing to her, and although she understood the basic idea, she had no conception of the details. She watched him work and he also talked to her about other things, including himself, and she found herself charmed by him, by his stories, his lightning mind, and his quick, self-mocking grin. She even liked the way his shoulders hunched when he was thinking hard or upset.

She told herself she was a fool, that there was no less likely match than the two of them, but nothing she told herself deflected or slowed the fall of her heart. She had finally admitted it to herself, abed in her apartment, staring up sleeplessly alone at her ceiling. She was in love with Stephen Bartowski. Really, truly, completely, hopelessly.

Frost had fallen.

Now she was ready to tell Stephen. She was going to tell him tonight at dinner. Tell him she had feelings, at least, maybe not name them, not yet. She was going to tell him that she wanted to date him - for real, even if they had to pretend it was pretend for Scott. Ask Stephen if they could be together.

A knock on the door.

Mary walked to the door and opened it. Stephen was standing there, a single red rose in his hand. He seemed unsure of it or of himself or both. He extended it, then retracted it, then extended it, all the while smiling at her with embarrassment.

_What the hell. _She reached out and took the rose with one hand. With the other, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into her apartment and into a deep, wet kiss. His surprised half-squeak became a tremulous moan. Her moan rose to meet his. She reached out with her hand and shut the door. Then she started walking backward toward her bedroom, still wrapped in Stephen's arms, still kissing him, guiding him toward their nearer relationship.

As they fell on her bed, she laughed silently to herself. _Show, I guess, not tell._ And as his hand traveled down her side toward the hem of her dress, she closed her eyes and let emotion commingle with desire.

A new sensation.

* * *

A/N: A little bonus chapter. Back to our scheduled chapters soon.

Chapter Theme: Zero 7, _Pageant of the Bizarre_.


	23. Chapter 21: Volte-face

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

I had not planned on Chapter Twenty's full-on step into Mary's POV. I hope it provided some context for what has happened and what will.

* * *

_Bryce ground his teeth. It had better not. It was too important. There are things there even Jill knows nothing about. No, it was more likely the on-going Fulcrum activities in Bozeman. Bryce retrieved his phone and called the pilot. Time to get into the air. Time to get to Bozeman. _

_And if Walker was really with-with Chuck, well, Walker would need to pay for that. Chuck was supposed to be pining for her. That thought had warmed Jill during the cold years since Stanford. _

_Zondra turned from Ellie and got her phone. She sent a text. Morgan watched her and so did Ellie. Another silence. Then her phone lit up and she read a response. She started the car. "I need to find a safe place to stay for the night. Then I have a story for you, one that I think will make your story make more sense." _

_Mary told herself she was a fool, that there was no less likely match than the two of them, but nothing she told herself deflected or slowed the fall of her heart. She had finally admitted it to herself, abed in her apartment, staring up sleeplessly alone at her ceiling. She was in love with Stephen Bartowski._

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

**Volte-face**

* * *

Sunday night

* * *

Mary forced the memory back.

With a Spartan self-discipline, she had kept those memories carefully at bay for years, despite all the time she had spent in figurative and in literal darkness. They did her no good; she had killed whatever she and Stephen had, as efficiently as if she had been given a termination order. Her eyes came back into focus. Sarah was rubbing Chuck's face, calling his name softly, but he still had not responded.

"Has he been shot?" Mary asked, bending down to look more closely at Chuck's limp form. "I don't see a wound. I don't see any blood."

* * *

Sarah looked up, her eyes thawing, her anger abating. "No, he was fine...well, okay, until we found you."

Mary was immediately thoughtful. "Wait, did he call me 'Mary'? It sounded almost like Stephen was there in the dark. Why would Chuck call me 'Mary'?"

Sarah's face clenched; she thought about shooting the guards, Chuck seeing her do it. _Why would Chuck call _me '_Mary'? _Sarah needed help from someone who might know more about all this than she did. "Chuck has the Intersect."

Frost almost toppled over. Still bent at the knees, she put her hands on the ground to steady herself. "What did you say?"

"He has it, the Intersect."

"How is that possible?" Frost had gone pale; Sarah could see it even in the moonlight.

"Bryce Larkin emailed it to Chuck on his birthday."

Sarah saw Frost calculating in her head. "So, he hasn't had it for a long time?"

"No, not very long. But I think it is doing...something to him. Physically, yes, but especially psychologically. He...he goes in and out of focus. Sometimes he's Chuck, sometimes...he's not."

"Goddamn it," Frost muttered between clenched teeth. "I guess my punishment is to get to live every nightmare at least twice…"

Sarah felt her stomach twist. "What do you mean, Frost."

"I'll explain later. We need to get out of here. We're isolated, but someone will be along eventually."

Sarah thought of Brown, her text to him before she and Chuck headed toward the barn. "Okay, Frost, but we are going to talk. If there is some way to help Chuck…"

Frost shot Sarah a dangerous look. "I am his mother. _I love him_. Of course, I will help."

Sarah knew her return look was skeptical.

Frost noted it, nodded, stared into Sarah's eyes. "I understand. We're both going to have problems believing the other, I guess. For now, we'll just have to _trust-but-verify_." Frost stood and Sarah saw her grimace. Sarah glanced down and saw the burns on Frost's feet.

"Can you make it?"

"I can always do what I have to do. My accursed gift. Put one of his arms around you; I'll put the other around me. I'm assuming there's a vehicle nearby."

Sarah nodded. "Yes, in the cornfield. Let's use the road, it will be quicker, and easier on your feet, I hope."

They hoisted Chuck between them and started toward the car.

It was a long, hard walk. Chuck's weight, Frost's feet and Sarah's emotional exhaustion combined to make it seem like it took forever. But they were able finally to get Chuck into the rear seat of the car.

Sarah got in the driver's seat and Frost sat down beside her. Sarah fished her bag out from under the seat and got her phone. There was a text from Brown.

**Local fire truck on the way. ETA 25 minutes. Cleaner team and agents too. ETA one hour. Glad you are okay. Saw it on satellite. Reality television.**

A joke from Brown? Sarah texted back: **Leaving the scene. Chuck unconscious. Freed prisoner with us. **Sarah decided not to reveal that it was Frost, not yet. There was too much she did not understand about her, about all this.

The phone lit up**. Does Chuck need medical attention?**

Sarah replied: **Don't know. No apparent injury. Vitals steady.**

A pause, then a response: **Okay. Abandoned farm twenty minutes away. Likely safe place to hide. Directions to follow.**

Sarah looked up and over at Frost. She was studying Sarah, her face hard. "Reporting to Langley? You just told Chuck you were going to leave this life. What's really going on?" Pause. "You're only with him because of the _Intersect_." The last words were an accusation, not a question. Frost's eyes narrowed, grew stony. Sarah felt a gun barrel press painfully into her side. "Tell me the truth, Agent Walker, or, goddamn it, I will kill you right here and leave your corpse among the cornstalks."

* * *

Saturday night

* * *

Morgan was trying not to ask questions, trying not to stare, trying not to hum the old Batman TV show theme. It was playing loud in his head. _Zowie! Zap! Whamm! _

Zondra pulled the car into a hotel parking lot, angling the car into a darkened corner. She turned to look at Morgan and Ellie. "We should already have a room reserved. Let me go in and get the key. Stay here. We'll talk when I get back."

She took the remaining items out of her belt and put them on the seat between herself and Morgan. Then she took off the vest. She pulled it over her head, and her t-shirt came up, revealing her badly bruised ribs. She hissed as she took off the vest, fighting a bit to get it over the shoulder she had been favoring. Morgan knew he was staring but luckily Zondra did not immediately look his way. She pulled her t-shirt down and then glanced at him. It was hard to know what to make of the glance. He looked at his feet.

She got out of the car. Morgan watched and watched her walk away.

Ellie cleared her throat. "Morgan. Earth calling Morgan…"

"Um...yeah, Ellie?" Morgan asked, his tone wistful. He started whistling the theme song.

Ellie spoke over the whistle. "I know she's beautiful, and I know you are imagining Batgirl, and while I am happy to have you looking at her like that instead of me, I need to ask you, now: do we stay or go? There's a gas station across the street. We could run and ask for help. Get away from her, from Zondra."

"But - she is helping us. She saved us."

"She did. But why? Don't forget how we met her Morgan. She had a gun trained on me. She seems to have done a volte-face - but we have no idea if we can trust her, or if we can, how far."

Morgan shook his head. "I trust her. All the way."

Ellie's voice became sharp. "Morgan, why?"

"Roast beef on pumpernickel, mayo, tomato. That's just not a bad-guy sandwich; it's the sandwich equivalent of a white ten-gallon hat." He got a faraway look in his eyes. _From Batgirl to the Lone Ranger...er, Rangerette?_

"Morgan, stop thinking about Zondra and sandwiches, or hats, or whatever. She works for the CIA. How can we trust her?"

"But she knows...knew?...Sarah. We trust Sarah. Don't we?"

Ellie twisted her mouth to the side. "I guess. I keep getting forced into making momentary decisions on who to trust. And - oh, God! - I have got to get in touch with Devon. He must be out of his mind with worry. What about your mom, Morgan?"

He shrugged. "Probably glad to get me out of the house. She has some new boyfriend, very hush-hush. I don't get it. She always introduced me to the men she's dated before. Anyway, she probably thinks I am at your place, or at the Pier, or something." He shrugged again.

"Well, keep your guard up, Morgan. I want to believe the woman who saved us is the real Zondra and not the woman in the hospital's parking garage." Ellie's voice dropped. "It's too late now, she's coming."

Zondra got back in the car. She started it and drove around to the backside of the building. "Follow me."

She got out again and so did Morgan and Ellie. Zondra walked to a room and slipped a key in the lock. It opened and she turned and gave Morgan a smile. "I'm afraid we're going to share. I didn't want to tell the clerk we were three."

Morgan walked in. The room was clean if old. The peculiar close, stale, air-conditioned odor of a hotel room thickened the air. The outdated pattern of the wallpaper seemed at war with the outdated pattern of the carpet. It was a little like walking between dueling kaleidoscopes. Morgan reached the small table in one corner and sat down in one of the two chairs. Ellie sat down on the foot of the bed, apparently studying the carpet, trying to decipher its arabesques.

Zondra entered the room a moment later, closing the door with her foot as she passed it, her arms full of the things she had put in the seat before going into the hotel office. She put them down on the small table then sat down in the other chair. With a small groan, she angled it so that she could see both Ellie and Morgan.

She closed her eyes and inhaled. She grimaced.

"I need to look at you, Zondra, make sure you are okay…" Ellie said in a quiet, professional voice.

"Thanks. In a bit. Let's talk first. I have some decisions to make. I will try to keep this short. A lot of this is classified; I am informally reading you in. I shouldn't have to tell you that you must keep it to yourselves.

"I've been a CIA agent for about eight years. A few years after I joined, I was assigned to a covert team - all women, four of us, as it happens - and one of them was Sarah Walker. Sarah was the _de facto _leader of the group, at least on the clock." Zondra chuckled softly to herself. "Off the clock, the leader was...someone else. Anyway, that was partly because Sarah was really never off-the-clock; she worked constantly. You see, her work with us was really not her primary work. Her primary work was as CIA Director Langston Graham's enforcer." Zondra paused, letting the final word expand to fill the room. Ellie's face darkened.

Morgan spoke up, confused: "Enforcer? Like _bouncer_?"

Zondra chuckled but this time with evident dark humor. "Something like that. She was...she is...Her primary work is _wetwork_."

"She's a CIA diver? Scuba doo!" Morgan interjected, excited.

"No, Morgan," Ellie said, softly, "she's a killer, an assassin." Ellie's eyes zeroed in on Zondra's. "Right?"

Zondra nodded one time. Ellie dropped her head in her hands, shaking it. Morgan was only beginning to catch up. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy's. _Zowie! Zap! Whamm!_

"Wait? Wait? _Does Sarah Walker_ kill_ people for a living_? Holy shit, Batgirl."

* * *

Sunday night

* * *

"Where? How?" Sarah asked as the cold from the barrel made itself felt along with the stabbing pressure against her ribs.

Frost spoke in a low, feral voice. "Chuck dropped it. You never seemed to notice.

"To be honest, that's probably the only reason I haven't already put a bullet in your head. I don't know if your concern, your panic, was professional or personal, but I know it was at least _real._" Frost jabbed the gun harder against Sarah's side. "Now tell me about the texts."

Sarah held the phone out to Frost, angled so that she could see the screen. Frost read the most recent messages then nodded. Sarah scrolled back to the earlier exchange. Frost's eyes widened and the gun got jammed deeper into Sarah's side. "_Termination_? _The on-going mission?_"

Sarah made herself breathe. She needed to be clear. Frost was a dangerous woman. "When Langston Graham found out that Bryce had sent the Intersect to Chuck, he sent me after it. I was supposed to retrieve it and was authorized to terminate Chuck if necessary." Sarah turned her head slowly to look into Frost's eyes. She realized what she saw in Frost's blue eyes must have been what some of her own targets saw in hers. She trembled against her will, gripped by oily nausea. She made herself breathe again and her nausea subsided.

"I looked at Chuck's file on the way here and I found this photograph...I guess I knew then, even if I didn't admit it to myself, that I couldn't kill the man in that photograph. It's crazy but...I _liked_ him just from the picture."

Sarah thought she heard Frost mutter. "Not so crazy." But then the gun got shoved cruelly in her side again. "Go on!"

"I didn't know he had the Intersect...that it was in his head. I went to the Buy More…"

"Huh?"

"Big box electronic store where Chuck worked."

"Oh."

"...And he saw me and...he...flashed…"

"Flashed?"

"The Intersect...intersected."

"Oh."

"He knew who I was immediately, saw my file in his head. He rabbited."

Frost chuckled coldly. "I can imagine. That file must make even mine look like a Girl Scout troop leader application."

Sarah stiffened. "I don't take any pride in that file, Frost. I didn't really choose this life, unlike you."

"I don't know what that means, but I _have heard_ about you. Bryce Larkin and I have spent time together...in my dark _luxury suite_ back there, the one that just exploded. You were a...recurring topic."

"_I_ don't know what _that_ means…"

"You are the perfect agent. It is what you've always been chasing...I know, I chased it too."

Sarah turned to face Frost, forgetting the gun. "No. No. When I started, for a little while...at the Farm, spy school, _maybe_. I never knew any other adult life. But soon, not long, after that...after my Red Test...I stopped chasing anything...and I started running from...myself. The motion looked the same but its meaning changed. I was running from what I had done. What I kept doing - because there was no way off the path I was on, or I couldn't see one. Each new mission allowed me to forget the last. But each was just a fresh horror. I was terminating myself termination by termination. I couldn't see anything else for myself..." Frost's eyes were locked on Sarah's, blue on blue. She jabbed the gun into Sarah again.

Sarah continued. "...Not until recently, and then not clearly, not until your son. Not until Chuck. Now I see clearly what I want."

Frost's eyes turned skeptical. "How can you know? You may _believe_ it now, but you can't _know_."

Sarah started to answer when Chuck groaned from the back seat. Sarah ignored the gun and whirled around to check on him. He had not awakened but he groaned again and moved in the seat, his head lolling a bit. She looked at Frost. "Shoot me if you have to, Frost. I'm going back there."

Sarah got out of the car and opened the rear door. She slid in beside Chuck and made sure he was okay. The dome light showed his color returning. Sarah looked at Frost and handed her the phone. Frost pointed the gun at Sarah again.

"Frost, the man I am texting is Brown. He's the best analyst the CIA has. For some reason, he seems to be helping me and Chuck. I don't understand it all but he sent me directions to an abandoned farm not too far away. Let's go there, see if we can do any more for Chuck. I want to try to call Ellie again."

Frost's mouth dropped. "You know my daughter? Were you authorized to kill her too?"

"No, Frost. I think Ellie and I may one day be friends if we can get out of this mess."

Frost looked at Sarah, then at the phone. "So you can call her?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, your daughter is a doctor, a brain doctor. I think she can help Chuck."

Frost did not seem surprised by Ellie's occupation. Whether that was because Frost already knew it or just that she expected her daughter to do something like that was unclear.

After a long moment of looking at Sarah holding Chuck in the backseat, Frost lowered the gun. "Okay, truce. Let's get to the abandoned farm. Let's call Ellie." Frost waved the gun while still not pointing it at Sarah. "_Truce_ \- cessation of hostilities; I'm not declaring us to be allies."

* * *

"You could put it that way, Morgan. Sarah's the most respected and the most feared spy I have ever met. Driven. Focused. _Perfect. _In those days anyway, she reminded me of a shark. Never asleep, always moving, swimming, aware. Swimming, always swimming." Zondra's tone was half admiration, half pity.

"Our final mission went sideways and it seemed like the only explanation was that one of the team had sold us out. A transmitter was found in one of my shoes, and Walker decided summarily that I was the turncoat. She couldn't tolerate the mission failure. It was as if a mission failure meant...that her whole CIA career was _meaningless_...I don't know, but the failure made her crazy. We were friends, but she wouldn't listen. I took a lie detector test and passed it. Still, she wouldn't listen. We did not part as friends. We haven't spoken since."

"And this is the woman with my brother…" Ellie offered to the room but to no one in particular.

Zondra hurried on. "Look, whatever my differences with Walker, I won't do her the disservice of making her out to be a cold-blooded killer.

"She's not. She can do it - " Zondra paused, " - others can't. But she is not blood-thirsty, not a killer in the sense you have in mind. I mean...I don't know. I do know she was careful with our missions to make sure that there was as little possibility of collateral damage as possible. A couple of times, she risked her own life to keep civilians out of danger...Sarah Walker is a complicated woman."

"Complicated," Ellie echoed, speaking to Zondra, "and what was her mission in Burbank? Do you know, Zondra?"

"No, but I have a very educated guess. The Intersect has always been treated as more myth than reality. Whispered about in Langley but not taken seriously by the rank and file - folks like me. But if it is real - and it seems that it is, and weirder than any of us guessed - then Graham would have sent his best agent after it. Whether I like to admit it or not, that means he would send Walker. Graham's choice of her was probably overdetermined, since, if your brother turned out to be in league with Larkin, Graham would want him...disposed of. Again, Walker would be the first choice…"

"So, you're saying that she came here under orders to kill Chuck" Ellie broke in, "to terminate my brother?"

"Yes, but I suspect she wasn't told to kill him, only that she was authorized to do so if Chuck did anything to make it seem like he was in on all this."

"You mean, like running away?"

"Yes, that, for one thing."

Ellie sat thoughtfully. "And you, Zondra, you were sent here to terminate _me_?" Ellie's voice thickened.

Silence, taut and unbearable, filled the room. "Yes."

"By this..._Graham_?"

"Yes."

"Fuck him."

"Yes - I mean, maybe."

Ellie froze. "Maybe?" Her voice became hard. "What are you planning to do with us, Zondra? Was it Graham you have been in contact with on your phone?" Ellie's stood as her voice rose in challenge.

Zondra put up her hands, palms facing Ellie, standing herself. "Not Graham. Someone else...someone who guided me to you two when I had no good lead. He set up this room, suggested the place."

"And you trust some unnamed somebody? That doesn't seem very spy-like."

Zondra gave Ellie a frowning smile. They both sat down. "Spies trust all the time; they haven't got a choice, despite their mistrust mantra. It's just that the few people they mistrust are salient, are front and center in their consciousness, marks, assets, targets, while the people they trust, so many of them if you stop and think about it, a legion, are shunted into the background. They are still there, anyway. Trust comes before mistrust, frames it…"

Ellie picked up the dangling thread of reasoning. "Right, because to mistrust everyone would not be to be a spy, it would be to be insane. We couldn't make sense of ourselves as living in a human world unless we took almost all of it, and all that almost everyone else does, at face value, on trust. Almost everything is what it seems; otherwise, we wouldn't be able to make the appearance/reality distinction in the ways we do."

Zondra's smile became less frowning. "Yes, that's it. And I do trust whoever is helping us." She paused.

"Let me add, in Graham's...um, defense, that he rescinded my termination order and sent me out to find you two, in effect, to save you from Larkin."

"Or to get us away from him. Like the game, Keep Away."

Zondra laughed briefly. "Or that. As you said before, maybe out of the frying pan and into the fire. I want to contact the person who has been helping us and see if he can get us to Sarah and your brother. If Graham complains, I will just tell him I made an operational decision under fire. But I will put off talking to him for as long as I can."

Ellie sat for a long moment. Morgan felt the tension in the room ramping up. But then Ellie nodded at Zondra. "Okay, but first let me call Devon."

Zondra handed Ellie the phone. The tension abated.

* * *

Sarah drove the car while Frost tended to Chuck in the backseat.

Sarah could not hear what Frost was saying but she could tell that she was talking to Chuck in a running, repetitious whisper. In the rearview, Sarah could see that every few seconds, Frost would put her hand on Chuck's cheek, just touching him, caressing him, a prodigal mother and her son.

Not long before Sarah pulled into the weedy driveway to the abandoned farm, she glanced into the rearview to see Frost holding Chuck, her head buried between his neck and shoulder, the gun in her hand and her hand resting on Chuck's chest, her body racked with violent, silenced sobs. Sarah teared up and had to wipe her eyes before she turned the car off the road and into the driveway.

The farm did look abandoned in the pale moonglow.

The barn leaned precariously - like the Tower in Pisa. It was inky-black. Its large front doors were off their heavy hinges, one completely, and it was on its side, rotting, away from the entrance it once covered.

Sarah hit the high beams and drove right into the barn itself. She looked around and knew Frost was doing the same. The barn was more or less empty. Hay bales stacked helter-skelter crowded one back corner, and two metal pieces of farm equipment - made to be pulled by a tractor or perhaps even by a horse - rusted moodily in the front corner. Sarah shut off the engine and clicked off the lights and they were all plunged into darkness as black as the barn itself. But gradually, Sarah's eyes adjusted and she could see - enough moonglow wandered in through the door, holes in the ceiling, and cracks in the walls for her to make out her surroundings.

She popped the trunk and got out of the car. A small first-aid kit was among the items in the trunk and Sarah grabbed it. She came back around and opened the driver's side rear door, the one beside Frost. Frost rotated away from Chuck to look at Sarah. She still had the gun in her hand but it was still not pointed at anyone.

"Grab the flashlight from the front seat. I need to take care of your burns."

Frost put the gun in her lap then reached into the front seat. She handed Sarah the flashlight. Sarah put it on the ground and turned it on, and it bathed Frost's burned feet in its light. Sarah wordlessly attended to the burns and blisters, cleaning them, applying antiseptic and then bandaging them. She got up and went to the trunk again and came back with a pair of shoes, the ones she had worn before the clothes change back at _Tractor Supply. _

"These will be a bit too big, I think."

Frost smirked. "A bit?"

Sarah ignored the jibe. "That might be good. Accommodate the bandages. The main thing is to keep the bandages relatively clean." Sarah slipped each shoe on accompanied by a suppressed hiss from Frost. "Okay, now, let's get a place prepared for Chuck."

Sarah stood up with the flashlight and walked to the hay bales. She grabbed one on the ground, knelt and pulled a blade from the holster on her calf, and quickly cut the twine. The hay fell loose on the ground. She moved it around, making it even. Then she stood and surveyed her work. She nodded. When she turned, she saw Frost, now standing outside the car, watching her, the gun still in her hand but still not pointed at anyone.

Sarah gestured to it. "Put it away, Frost. Mine is in the car."

"Yes, but your knives are on your leg. Bryce was rather taken with your knives. Actually, just to torment me, he spent a fair amount of time telling me _all_ about you - about the two of you, _together_. He has a turn of mind for graphic description of certain...details."

Sarah's face burned in the dark, anger and embarrassment both coloring her cheeks, but she did not think Frost could see it. She clicked off the flashlight just to be sure.

"_That_, Bryce, us," Sarah said, "that was all a mistake. I thought he...cared for me, understood something about me, that he even shared it, but I don't think that was true. I regret it. I regret that he ever touched me...and that I ever touched him. It was all a counterfeit."

"More than you know, I fear." Frost looked at her with a certain empathy.

"What?"

"Bryce seduced you. He studied you, got close to Graham so that he could suggest that you be partnered with him. The whole thing was a plan to bring you over to Fulcrum, switch your loyalties. Maybe other things. He's never forgiven you for resisting him, refusing him. That counts in your favor in my book, but having slept with him counts against you. In fact, that error in your judgment, given the spy you are supposed to be and given that I am now supposed to believe you have feelings for my son, that error figures in as a dead loss in my book."

Sarah had been growing steadily angrier. First with Frost, but then with Bryce.

_It wasn't real at all? It was all a setup? I was in a perverse honeytrap and had no idea? I slept with him thinking there was something between us and that there could be more and I was just his...mark? _

Sarah felt dizzy with outrage, dirty, used. _But it all makes sense. I misunderstood what he was doing or he calculated that I would. He used my loneliness against me. He used my willingness to take orders from Graham against me. He used himself against me, his fucking smile. _Scenes of them together, memories, flooded into Sarah's mind, but they were all in a different key, no longer images of regrets, they were images of shame and violation.

"If he weren't dead, I'd kill him," Sarah whispered, her voice as feral as Frost's had been earlier.

"_What?_ Larkin's dead?"

Sarah shrugged and answered simply. "Yes."

Frost ducked her head, danced on her sore feet in her too large shoes. "Praise be. I hope he burns forever in a remorseless hell." Frost's dry-ice tone made the air in the barn go cold. The anger drained from Sarah's feet and into the dirt floor.

They stood looking at each other for a while.

"Help me move Chuck, Frost. Once we've situated him, I have a question for you."

They moved Chuck gently from the car to the bed of hay. Sarah kissed his lips, checked him again. He still seemed fine - he just would not wake up and there had not even been another groan. Frost sat down on another bale.

Sarah sat on her feet next to Chuck, rubbing his hand. Sarah knew Frost was watching, and it made Sarah feel strange, unnatural, to have every kiss or whisper or caress weighed in the balance, judged.

"You said something about having to live all your nightmares twice. I've been waiting to ask about that. What did you mean? What does it have to do with Chuck?"

Frost exhaled slowly. "It's part of the Intersect history, part of my history with my husband, part of our family's pageant of the bizarre."

She exhaled again. "You see, I was Stephen's protector, his handler...and we fell in love."

"I know. Chuck told me."

Frost's eyes widened but she went on. "It was wonderful for a time. But then I grew...antsy, nervous, _something_. I wanted to go back to work, to be an agent as I had been before we married.

"Stephen did not want it, but he would not oppose it. I started again and that was the beginning of our end. Stephen and I told the kids and our friends that I was a financial auditor, traveling from place to place reviewing financial records - not completely false, for what that's worth, but still a lie.  
Stephen wanted to know about my missions but I couldn't...wouldn't...tell him. He thought it was because of what I was doing on the missions, " Frost paused and swallowed.

Sarah interjected: "Oh."

"No, not _that_. I won't pretend I never took that path before I was married; I did, a couple of times and Stephen...suspected it, though I never confirmed his suspicions. But from the first time we were together I made it clear to Scott, the Director then, and later to Graham, that I would not be doing seduction missions, at least no mission where that was a foreseeable...necessity.

She sighed. "There was some...slap and tickle...on a few missions...but nothing I counted cheating on my husband. I should have told him, I know that now, but then it seemed...well, just too much to talk about and soon there were kids involved. I did no missions while pregnant, none while Ellie was very little or Chuck was, and those were happier times for us. But I always eventually went back." Her eyes went out of focus in the present, focused on the past.

"Stephen began to get suspicious of me, then of the CIA generally. Unbeknownst to me, he divided the Intersect into two different versions. One that he shared with the Company, the other he kept hidden, the real or the better one."

"Graham, the CIA, knows there are two versions. So does Fulcrum," Sarah said.

Frost shook her head. "Figures. Larkin never let on, exactly, but he did...press me about certain issues. I guess I've fallen behindhand, after all my time in the dark." She smiled a chilly smile. "Larkin never cracked me, damn him. I held out...for Stephen, for what I had done. I...Oh, Stephen." Frost wiped at her eyes but tried to turn the movement into a gesture of annoyance. She failed. Looking away from Sarah, she stared at Chuck for a time.

She finally smiled. "We had some good years when the kids were small. Being with Stephen was like getting an education all over again. We read poetry together, all kinds of books. We read Plato's _Republic_...Bloom's translation, I remember. That's a hard book for a spy, all about the just soul. Although there's this one early section on the Ring of Gyges...well, it sheds light on spying. I think Stephen was hoping I would 'see the light'. He thought spying was wrong, a distortion of human life, a violation of a principle he always mentioned: 'You may not do evil so that good may come.' That's sewn into the _Republic _too. I've had...time to think and I see that now, then...not so much.

"At around that time, an MI-6 agent became involved. The Brits had gotten wind of the Intersect and wanted in on it and they sent an agent, Tuttle was his name, to find out about it. Graham agreed to it for reasons I still don't understand. Tuttle figured out that there were two versions, and he downloaded what he thought was the better one into himself. But what he downloaded was an identity Stephen was toying with, an identity built on the faulty version. It made Tuttle crazy. It made him into Alexei Volkoff."

Sarah gasped. "What?"

Frost did not stop to respond. "The Intersect is, at the bottom, a piece of AI. Stephen was tinkering, wondering if it would be possible for the Intersect to deliver a cover identity to an agent, one that would be undetectable, since the agent would not know it to be a cover. The hope was that the agent could be triggered, on and off. But Tuttle downloaded the program before the failsafes were in place. It worked. But it also drove Tuttle mad. Volkoff became...a monster. The CIA still doesn't realize they funded the creation of the man who then created Fulcrum."

Frost stopped. Sarah had no words. She just gaped at Frost, waiting for her to go on. "The Intersect, in any version, melds with the mind of the host, more thoroughly than Stephen understood. He created something that worked better than he knew, in one sense, and that he could not fully control.

"Eventually, Graham came to me and gave me a mission. Stop Volkoff by any means necessary. I took the mission and destroyed my life and my family, although I did not know that was what I was doing. I felt like it was, in a way, my fault, Stephen's fault, our fault, and that I needed to...clean up our mess. What you told me about Chuck's...behavior...sounds like Tuttle's behavior early on after he downloaded the Intersect, before we knew he had done it. The Intersect has come home to roost, I guess you could say, some kind of weird digital karma."

Sarah got up and walked to the car. She returned with her phone. "We have to call Ellie. I can't lose Chuck. You can't lose him."

Frost sighed in bitter anxiety. "Yes, let's call my daughter. I would love to see her, although I...doubt she will feel the same way. Maybe you should leave me out of what you tell her."

"Okay, but we stay here until she arrives. Chuck's physically fine, but I am scared to death of what is going on in his head. He called you 'Mary', remember? He called _me_ that too, just a little before we found you."

_I think your husband is dead, Frost. But, maybe, alive in your son's head. How do I tell you all this?_

Frost dropped her head into her hands. "Oh, my God. Stephen!"

* * *

A/N: As can be seen, I am keeping a lot of the generic features of canon's Bartowski family backstory, but speciating them in a different way, and so altering their inner meaning.

Chapter Theme: Elvis Costello, _Brilliant Mistake_


	24. Chapter 22: Malevolent Seascape Y

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

"_Wait? Wait? Does Sarah Walker kill people for a living? Holy shit, Batgirl."_

_Frost waved the gun while still not pointing it at Sarah. "Truce - cessation of hostilities; I'm not declaring us to be allies."_

_In the rearview, Sarah could see that every few seconds, Frost would put her hand on Chuck's cheek, just touching him, caressing him, a prodigal mother and her son. _

"_Bryce seduced you. He studied you, got close to Graham so that he could suggest that you be partnered with him. The whole thing was a plan to bring you over to Fulcrum, switch your loyalties. Maybe other things."_

"_Tuttle figured out that there were two versions, and he downloaded what he thought was the better one into himself. But what he downloaded was an identity Stephen was toying with, an identity built on the faulty version. It made Tuttle crazy. It made him into Alexei Volkoff."_

_Sarah got up and walked to the car. She returned with her phone. "We have to call Ellie. I can't lose Chuck. You can't lose him."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

**Malevolent Seascape Y**

* * *

Part One: Costa Brava

* * *

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah...Come back to us, Blondie. Sarah!"

Sarah opened her eyes. Sunlight shafted through the interior of a...barn. _No, the barn burned, exploded. Wait. The other barn. _Sarah did not feel like she was waking up; she felt like she had been pulled up from the ocean's freezing floor - or was rising from the dead.

_Redhead. _"Carina? How? What?" Sarah sat up and squeezed her eyes shut in pain: the top of her skull seemed to want to detach itself from the rest and burst free of her skin. _What happened?_ She carefully opened her eyes and saw Chuck's brown chore coat atop her. She was in a pile of scattered hay.

She tried to think. Remember. She had talked with Frost...Sarah scanned the barn. Frost was nearby, eyes closed, under Sarah's navy chore coat. How did the coats get reversed?

It had gotten cold in the barn last night. Sarah gave her coat to Frost, then took Chuck's coat off him, snuggled close against him and covered them both with it.

But where was Chuck? _Chuck? _"Chuck? Chuck?!"

She felt Carina's strong hands on her shoulders. "He's gone, Sarah. He wasn't here when we arrived a few hours ago. You...and the other woman have both been tranqed. Casey's out checking the perimeter. It looks like the car you came in is gone too. I'm guessing Chuck took it, since he's not here."

Sarah shook her head violently. _No, no, this can't be happening. He was in my arms. How can he be gone? No!_

"There has to be some mistake. He was here, unconscious, with me. I was holding him." Sarah clambered to her feet but almost toppled, her balance not rising with her.

"Whoa, Sarah. Slow down. It's gonna take a minute for all your parts to start moving together. Calm, be calm. We'll find him." She handed Sarah a bottle of water.

Sarah put her hand on the top of her head, trying to keep her skull in one piece. "It's morning. He can't have gotten far. We were only asleep for a couple of hours."

Carina stepped in front of Sarah, forcing Sarah's eyes to lock on hers. "Sarah, you weren't simply asleep; you were drugged. And it isn't morning, it's the afternoon. Drink."

Sarah shook her head even more violently. "No, that, that can't be right. Morning, not the afternoon."

Carina's voice dropped, softened. "I'm sorry, Sarah, but it is the afternoon."

A gruff voice, outside, moving inside. "Checked again. Car tracks in and out; the same car. Turned onto I-90, but going west, not east. Backtracking. -Oh, she's up."

Carina stepped aside, revealing John Casey. Sarah looked at him and nodded weakly. She spoke to Carina, turning to her, still disoriented. "How are you two here?"

"A little CIA birdy guided us, like Kehaar guiding the rabbits in _Watership Down._" Despite the tension, Carina giggled and looked at Casey. "I guess that makes you Bigwig."

Sarah, swaying a little, widened her eyes. "Keehar? Bigwig? Carina, Chuck is missing!" Hot tears sprang into her eyes and ran down her cheeks. They felt scalding.

Seeing Sarah's tears, Carina looked lost for a moment. Casey now stood beside Carina and he looked at Sarah, back to Carina. "Well? Do something."

Carina opened her arms and embraced Sarah. Sarah held onto her both for balance and for support.

Sarah felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

Sarah had gone to sleep frightened for Chuck but hopeful. She had talked to Ellie. Ellie had promised to come. She was supposed to fly into Bozeman...tonight. With Morgan. It was as close as she could get on a commercial flight. _Oh, God!_

Chuck was gone. _Chuck is gone._

* * *

Sarah and Frost had talked for a long time, sitting on hay bales.

Frost made Sarah narrate the entire story of her and Chuck, from the meeting in the Buy More until Chuck's collapse in the barn's basement. Frost became more and more sure that Sarah's suspicion, that the Intersect was doing more than supplying Chuck with CIA and NSA data was correct. Also, Frost became more and more sure that somehow Chuck was tapping into...Stephen.

"I wondered," Frost said at one point, her voice troubled, "I wondered if Stephen downloaded the Intersect, the better version. He must have. I know why. Because of me. He wanted revenge on Volkoff."

"Revenge?"

Frost's eyes glowed in the moonlight, tears. Tears unshed. "Stephen would not accept my mission to help Tuttle - my mission to Volkoff. He chased me, made my long effort to get to Volkoff precarious. I knew Stephen might find me anywhere, anytime. I avoided him, and for several months during which I...built a resume that would attract Volkoff's attention - he was untouchable, holed up in a compound on the outskirts of Moscow, more secure than the US President - Stephen seemed to have given up the search.

"I started to breathe easier. I hated being separated from Stephen, from the kids, but...it was _my mission_. I completed missions; it's what I did. It is what I do...did. Anyway, I eventually found out Stephen had taken a crash course at the Farm, had somehow talked Graham into allowing it, and when he started chasing me again...well, it was clear that he hadn't wasted his time at the Farm..._Stephen was a spy_." Frost's voice broke.

She looked away, blinking, then turned back and went on. "I had made the man who disapproved of spying, who thought that you should not do evil so that good may come...I made him a spy, and I did it by insisting on being one myself. I was the corruptor and I corrupted him. Absolutely." She took a moment and stared hard at Sarah.

"You see, I realized he would find me. I had to get him to stop searching. Our children needed parents...one parent, at least. I had already found Volkoff. He and I had become...close." She dropped Sarah's gaze, looked at the ground. "_Seductively close,_" Frost added in a flat whisper. Pause. "It was the only way I could get to Volkoff, my only chance to see if Tuttle was still in there, still...viable. But I needed more time, more access to Volkoff, Tuttle. Stephen had created a suppression device, and I had it, but it would only work if the subject was willing. Mental resistance would render it useless. The identity had to be surrendered to be suppressed. I had to..._win_ Volkoff over. He had to trust me implicitly." Frost's tone had become desperate, self-defensive, and she seemed to hear it. She stopped. Stood still.

"So, I told Volkoff about Stephen, claimed Stephen was a spy, a former lover who couldn't let me go. I saw Stephen in Barcelona and he followed me, met me in Tossa de Mar. At the Hotel Gran Reymar...That was the last night I ever spent with my husband.

"Volkoff and I staged my execution at an isolated cove on the Costa Brava. I made my husband, the only man I have ever loved or will ever love, watch as I was shot in the head. One of Volkoff's men knocked Stephen out before Stephen could interfere. I had lured Stephen to the beach; I knew he would follow. I watched through binoculars when he came to...and...believed what he had seen, what I staged."

Frost's voice failed her and she got up, limped around the dark barn, talking to herself beneath her breath. After a moment she went on very quietly. "I meant for him to just...give me up...to go home, to take care of Ellie and Chuck. Let me just be a spy; it's all I knew how to be. I broke him instead, betraying bitch that I am. I didn't know what it meant for a Bartowski to love someone. I learnt that morning as I watched Stephen shatter on that beach, beat his hands into raw meat in the bloody sand.

"I thought I could give him up, the kids up - that what I couldn't give up was being a spy. But the truth is that I was far more terrified of Stephen and our kids than I was a mission. I told myself I was making the hard choice. I made the goddamn easy choice. For me. Not for my family." She stopped, then in a hoarse whisper: "_La Sagrada Familia._"

"Volkoff saw my reaction to Stephen. When I put the binoculars down, I had become his prisoner, more or less. And he promised me he would kill Stephen and anyone else I had ever cared about if I so much as looked at him wrong, much less tried to escape. We flew to Moscow and I became his...bed warmer and...stay-at-home second-in-command.

"All because I was too afraid to be a wife and mother…_La Sagrada Familia._" Frost sank down on her knees, holding herself and swaying.

Sarah, still seated on a hay bale, was staring at the ground. Tears were running down her face, dripping onto her hands as they hung between her knees. She did not know how to respond, how to process the sheer...misery of the story, for Stephen, but also for Frost. For Chuck, for Ellie. The senseless ruination of it all.

There was a long, long silence.

Frost broke it at last. "If Stephen is somehow in Chuck's head, some Intersect AI version of Stephen, then Chuck may know all of this, all I have told you." Frost glanced at him, still unconscious on the bed of straw. Her face fell into a profound frown. "At least he has the better version." She continued to gaze at her son.

"But he won't be able to forgive me. None of them will. And, even though you haven't said it, your face hasn't hidden it, _Sarah_; you believe Stephen is dead."

Sarah looked up finally. "Yes, I do; I'm sure Graham believes it and he should know. Chuck and I haven't really talked about it; I get the feeling he believes it too. I'm sorry, Frost - _Mary_; I hope I am wrong, that Graham is wrong. That Stephen is alive."

* * *

Chuck's eyes were closed.

But he had heard the conversation. He heard it all. He had awakened as Mary told their story.

He kept his eyes closed while Sarah and Mary fell into silence; he kept them closed while Sarah gave Mary her coat and took Chuck's off him so that it could be a blanket for them both. He kept them closed while Sarah snuggled against him, rubbed his chest softly with her hand.

He kept them closed when she whispered gently in his ear: "I love you, Chuck."

Closed. He kept them closed.

Stephen did. Closed.

* * *

Part Two: Sing-Song

* * *

Chuck was singing. Singing tunelessly.

_You dug around in the sand  
You came up holding something  
And when you handed it over with that smile on your face  
I knew the three of us meant less than nothing  
I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything  
I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything._

Carina had played the song for Chuck. _Malevolent Seascape Y. _Chuck could not stop singing the song. Over and over, he sang the words as the car sailed toward Bozeman. _Fulcrum. Stop Fulcrum. ~Leave the betraying bitch behind. ~Frost. Sarah! _He had been singing for almost six hours. In two more, give or take, he would reach Bozeman. Then he would stop Fulcrum there. Flush Volkoff into the open. Gouge out Volkoff's eyes with his thumbs, blood and water and ocular jelly.

The end of Volkoff. The betraying bitch's lover.

_I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything. _

_Stop this. She loves you. She is sorry about the past. Talk to her. You love her too. ~No. _

Chuck was losing his grip on who he was thinking about. His mind swirled with lyrics. Malevolent Seascapes. Why?

_The Costa Brava. ~Tossa de Mar. ~The Gran Reymar. ~All lies. _

Chuck could not hear himself think. Or he could not hear just himself think. Or he was not doing the thinking. _Goddamn it._

"_I love you, Chuck." ~Liar. _

He saw the road sign: _Bozeman 130 miles_. Soon, Fulcrum. Soon, Volkoff. Soon.

_I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything._

* * *

Sarah stepped back from Carina's embrace, her balance finally returning. Casey looked at Frost. "Who's she?"

"Chuck's mom. Mary. Code name: Frost." Sarah took a long drink from her water.

Casey's head whipped around. Carina brows knitted. Casey: "You're shitting me. That's _Frost? _And she's Bartowski's...mom?" He whistled and grinned. "That kid's a riot of surprises. Like a Chuck-in-the-Box."

"He's gone. I don't think he's well."

Casey sobered. "What's wrong with him?"

"The Intersect."

"So he _has_ it."

Sarah put the empty water bottle down. "No, Casey. He _is _it. And it's destroying him, I think."

* * *

Brown woke up with a start, his cane clattering to the floor. He had been sleeping in his desk chair in his Langley office. His computer was beeping. Someone was poking around, trying to get through Brown's security, his firewalls, and his own invented protections. He put his fingers on the keyboard. He was too lame to have been in the field. No one was more dangerous with a keyboard. Brown was a _Qwerty_-warrior.

He glanced over at his phone. No word from Chuck and Sarah, none from Casey and Carina. _Damn. What was going on?_ He went on the counter-attack.

At least Elle and Morgan and Zondra were safely in the air.

* * *

Naked, Bryce stood and looked out the window of his hotel suite in Element Bozeman. He could see the mountains, snow-capped in the distance. He and Jill had checked on the Fulcrum activity in Bozeman. Everything seemed in order. Neither Bartowski nor Walker had been seen.

Bryce was both relieved and frustrated. He had taken Jill to the suite and done something about his frustration. She was now sleeping, snoring a little, naked herself, on the bed.

_Where the hell are you, Chuck? _

Bryce's CIA analyst, the Fulcrum mole, had produced nothing of use. Bryce had made it clear to him that if he did not produce something soon, he would face the wrath of Fulcrum. The man had understood the threat. Bryce was hopeful. Death was a motivator.

Turning, Bryce studied Jill's body, reliving the past hour. He smiled to himself, turning a little again so that he could catch his own smile in the mirror over the dresser. He supposed he loved her. He must, otherwise, he could not get so angry with her, could not have gotten so angry years ago about her seduction of Chuck and still be so angry about it now.

Fulcrum had recruited Bryce almost the first day he arrived on campus. They had done their homework. His childhood, outwardly one of privilege and wealth, had been a long, friendless voyage. His parents worked. They did not love him or each other. He was bright, athletic. Empty. Fulcrum gave him something to believe, something to care about. Later, when the CIA recruited him, his Fulcrum handler was overjoyed. He had been a double-agent from the day he signed the papers with the Company.

"Bryce," Jill said, sleepily, interrupting his thoughts, "come here and hold me." She rolled over and pulled the sheet from beneath herself, slipping beneath it and holding it up for him.

"Not right now, Jill," Bryce answered. Jill's face darkened as it always did when she made the request and he refused it. He had no appetite for contact with her once his hunger for her body had been satisfied. She rolled away from him and was silent.

He turned back to the window, gazing out toward the mountains. He needed to find Chuck. Soon. He needed to capture him alive. The plan would not work if he was dead. The Intersect would die with him. Chuck could die later, once the Intersect had been kept alive.

Bryce grinned mirthlessly. From his point of view, Chuck was the parasite; the Intersect was the host. The trick was getting rid of the parasite before it killed the host.

Bryce's grin widened but became no more mirthful. It became more humorless. _That biology class at Stanford was not wasted on me._

He and Jill would spend the night at Element Bozeman. Maybe by morning, his analyst would have something. Bryce glanced over his shoulder at Jill, her curves apparent under the sheet. Maybe he was hungry again. He moved to the bed, pulled the sheet off of Jill.

* * *

"Mary, Mary, wake up. It's Sarah. Wake up." Sarah patted Mary's shoulder. Mary's face, now seen in daylight, was still remarkably young. Her hair was not as grey as it had seemed in the light of Sarah's flashlight or beneath the moon. The blond of it had paled, but it was not really quite grey. Sarah could see both Chuck and Ellie in Frost's face.

Frost opened her eyes. She looked at Sarah, seemed to be taking stock of herself. "I've been drugged." A statement, not a question.

Sarah nodded. "How did you know?"

"I've been drugged...a number of times over the past couple of years. Fulcrum has found it easier to cope with me when I am not conscious. Or Larkin did."

"Mary, Chuck drugged us, tranqed us, in our sleep. He is gone."

Mary's face showed deep distress but she did not try to move. "How long?"

"It's afternoon. He likely left this morning. Six or seven hours, probably. He took the car. It looks like he went west."

Mary sat up, gathered herself, then looked carefully at Sarah. "Chuck didn't do this. It was Stephen, the Intersect. I don't know what to make of you, quite, but I know my son, even if I haven't seen him in years. He is in love with you, I'm sorry to say."

Carina had joined them. "Let me help you there, Frosty. Sarah loves your son, and I'm not sorry to say that."

'Who the hell are you?" Frost said, groping around herself for her gun. Carina held it out, out of Frost's reach. Casey walked up. "And who the hell is he?"

Sarah responded. "This is my friend, Carina. And her...friend, John Casey. She's DEA, he's NSA."

The initials left Frost unimpressed. "How are they here?"

"My friend at the CIA, the one who's been helping us, he sent them the location. They've been trying to find us. He redirected them from the other barn, the crater, to this one."

"Why are they here?"

"Because we all…" - Casey offered, glancing at Sarah - "..._like_ your son. And because we think there's something going on at the NSA where he is concerned, and maybe at the CIA too. But we've found out the whole situation is far weirder than we knew. Your son, Chuck, he has the Intersect _in his head? _I mean, I believe Walker, but that's…"

"That's the truth," Frost said. "And if either of you thinks for a moment about hurting my son or trying to turn this to your advantage, I will _end_ you with malice, is that clear?"

Casey's eyebrows rose. "Jesus, it really is Frost."

Carina smirked at Casey. "Get her some water, John. Sarah and I are going to take a quick walk, then we'll get moving."

Before Sarah could protest, Carina caught her hand and pulled her from the barn.

* * *

Frost watched the two women leave. She then studied Casey thoughtfully. "How did you get pulled into this?"

He looked at her and answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "Mission. Termination mission. Your son. He _was _ my target."

Frost continued to study him in apparent dispassion but she felt a twinge of rage. "I imagine you're good at your job."

"The best. Well, except for…" he gestured in Sarah's direction.

"She _seems _to care about my son."

"She does. I was at a Greyhound terminal in Seattle…" Frost listened as Casey told the story. He ended it. "I don't know her personally. Maybe only Carina does. Did. But I know she would not have missed at that distance unless she meant to miss. She meant to stop me. And she did that before she knew your son had the Intersect in his head."

Frost looked thoughtfully out the barn door at Sarah talking with Carina.

* * *

"It'll be a minute before she's ready. Hell of a way to meet the boyfriend's mom, huh? So, tell me - forget the spy stuff for a minute. Was I right? You do love him, don't you?"

Sarah nodded and smiled, despite the worry haunting her eyes. "Yes, Carina. I do. I didn't get a chance to tell him though. Maybe I never will…"

Carina grabbed Sarah's hand. "Don't you believe it. We'll find him. He'll hold on for you. I saw the look in his eyes when he still half-believed you would kill him if you found him, and he wanted you to find him anyway. He was a goner. Well, you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid, Carina. I've left the life. I'm _in_ it, I know, but no longer _of_ it. I want something...else," Sarah blushed. "I want it with him."

"Then let's find him and let's untangle this massive snarl, so you two can get back to doing...what I assume you've been doing?"

Sarah's blush deepened. Carina grinned. "That good, huh? Well, that suit was nice, but it was the man who had the magic, methinks."

Carina's face grew more serious. "So you say his sister is on her way? With his friend? Do you think they can help?"

Sarah nodded. "I hope so. Ellie's not just a doctor, she's a Bartowski. I have a feeling it will take a Bartowski to fix this."

"They're flying into Bozeman?"

"Yes, they expected us to meet them but we are going to be late. I can call them once they are on the ground."

Carina looked into the barn. Frost was up, drinking a bottle of water. "We have a few snacks and more water in the car. You're going to need something after the drug, and I have a feeling you two have more to tell us."

They started toward the barn. Sarah responded."We do. We'll talk on the way. So, _Casey_?"

"What can I say? He has my scent." Sarah stopped, peering at Carina. Carina continued. "I mean my perfume; he likes my perfume. The big dumb sap." Carina was smiling in Casey's direction as she said that.

* * *

Nearing Bozeman, Chuck suddenly knew, no flash involved, where he needed to go and what he needed to do. The local pattern was clear. The larger pattern was nearly so. Beside him in the seat, he had the gun he took from beside his mom. The tranq gun was there too.

He needed more ammunition. He needed other weapons, gadgets. He knew how to get them. He would start at the Bozeman Buy More. After that, he would find a place to buy ammunition, a few other things.

He'd been trained at the Farm. He knew how to be a spy. He was a spy.

_~Do not do evil so that good may come. Yes, right. ~No, wrong._

_What's happening to me?_

_..._

_I held the seashell next to my ear, but I didn't hear anything._

* * *

A/N: If you're reading but not responding, how about responding? Silent readers do not an audience make, not of the sort I want. The story doesn't cost you any money, but it costs me real work; you can repay my efforts by a response. Let me hear from you.

Chapter Theme: Ian McCullough, _Heaven's Gate_


	25. Chapter 23: Love Went Mad

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_Chuck is gone._

"_Volkoff and I staged my execution at an isolated cove on the Costa Brava. I made my husband, the only man I have ever loved or will ever love, watch as I was shot in the head. One of Volkoff's men knocked Stephen out before Stephen could interfere. I had lured Stephen to the beach; I knew he would follow. I watched through binoculars when he came to...and...believed what he had seen, what I staged." _

_Chuck could not stop singing the song. Over and over, he sang the words as the car sailed toward Bozeman. Fulcrum. Stop Fulcrum. ~Leave the betraying bitch behind. ~Frost. Sarah! He had been singing for almost six hours._

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

**Love Went Mad**

* * *

****, ****

Chuck stepped into the Bozeman Buy More, shaking his head. He stood still. Shook his head again, hard. It was like home, Burbank. Still despite its familiarity, it also felt unfamiliar, near and far. The encircling green was nauseating, the signage all Orwellian capitalist japing. Head shake. Head shake. He walked slowly toward the Nerd Herd desk.

A small young woman with dark hair turned toward him, a clipboard in one hand, a ballpoint in the other, tapping the former with the latter. She looked up at Chuck, then watched him intently as he finished his head-shaking trek to the desk. She smiled a quick, genuine smile, aiming her chin up so as to look Chuck in the eye.

_~Cute as a button. What? I don't say that. Dad used to say that. _

"Hey, there! I'm Lou. Welcome to the Buy More!" She threw her arms wide as if to embrace the encircling green. "What nerding needs...herding?" She stammered through the last bit, and her cheeks reddened. Especially when Chuck gave her a lost look and shrug.

She leaned forward, titling her chin up even more, her dark eyes brighter for the contrast with her scarlet cheeks. "My boss makes us say that shit. Sorry..."

"Not a problem." Chuck's voice was hoarse from singing and Lou seemed puzzled by his near croak. The mania that had seized him since Mary's confession in the barn had passed. His exhausted mind felt tender, sore - blistered all over. Still, he felt more or less like himself. Except for the need, the urge, the need: _deal with Fulcrum, destroy Fulcrum_.

It was an ulcerous pain, gnawing insistently when he tried to ignore it, less insistently when he did as it demanded. Right now, the pain was a slow-burning cigarette in the center of his brain. He managed to smile around the glowing ember. "I...used...to work at one of these. I know how it goes."

Lou's smile grew, and grew conspiratorial. "So, what can I help you with, O! Tall Bunyanesque Buymorian Ex-pat?" Her eyes promised mischief.

Chuck grinned in spite of it all. "I want to build my own computer - power on the cheap. Do you have what I need?"

She gave him a smirk, standing back from the desk so that he could see her better, turning herself a little at the waist and cocking her hips. "What do you think?"

Even though he was not in the grey flannel suit, far from it in his farm flannel shirt, jeans and boots, hay clinging to him, he gave her his best Cary Grant look. "I'm flattered - but I am also spoken for."

"_I love you, Chuck."_ The memory of Sarah's gentle whisper, the words she had spoken, had been in his mind since he parked the car, her words his life-preserver. The burning in his head cooled as he replayed them, and re-lived Sarah's warm, full-body embrace.

How he had wanted to say the words back, return her embrace! - but he could not do it. His eyes remained shut, his mouth too, his body still.

Lou snickered with unhidden frustration, calling Chuck from the barn to the Buy More. "Damn. That's how it always goes. _Good _equals _taken_." She huffed, blowing her bangs away from her head. "I don't know if we have the components you need. They've eliminated almost all the old force-feed stuff we used to get, the nerd candy, the stuff that the real nerds wanted. These days, you have to buy the whole fucking computer, and the one you buy can't even be opened up. Sealed like a tomb. That's the way of all tech, you know? It eventually becomes nothing but user-interface - like smartphones are all screen - and basically unrepairable. Trash it, ring China for a replacement, huh?"

Chuck was charmed by her mixture of savvy and slang. "True. Well, what's going to get me the most bang for my buck?"

Lou eyed him again. She put her hand on her own head, as if measuring herself. "See, that question would have been so much more fun without the 'spoken for' bit earlier."

Chuck felt _his_ cheeks color. "Sorry, but I am. Spoken for."

"I know. I can tell. That's part of the reason it pisses me off - I want the kind of guy who can be spoken for but every time I find him he's…"

"...Spoken for?" Chuck offered, completing her thought.

She nodded glumly, but then smiled. "C'mon, I'll show you what we've got." She led the way from the desk to the aisles of computers in the rear of the store. After a few minutes of talking and tinkering, Chuck found what he wanted. "Can you wipe it for me? Get rid of all the stuff that comes on it. You must have something that'll do that. Maybe back in...the Cage?"

She smirked again. "You really are an Ex-pat. I'm not supposed to do that," she looked around, "but, sure, _it can be done_." The conspiratorial tone was back, thick.

"Good. Could you do it while I finish shopping?"

Lou sized him up. "The Cage is big enough for two, and I know how to turn off the security camera…"

"Spoken for."

"I know. Damn it." She grabbed a boxed laptop and headed through the doors.

Chuck thought of his run through the same doors in Burbank. He'd been running from Sarah but toward Sarah. He just had not known it. He should have looked back.

~_Killer. _

_No, she loves me. _The pain began to intensify. Chuck began to look for other items. The pain lessened.

He got to check-out with his hands full. Lou was waiting on him, the laptop box's tape cut but closed. "Cash or charge?"

"Cash."

She rang him up and he paid. "I get off in a little while," she noted, a sneaky look on her face. "There's a good coffee shop up the street, Zocalo, just started serving good sandwiches. _Killer roast beef_…"

Chuck frowned then smiled. "Sorry, Lou. No time. Things to do."

She shrugged. "Well, I'll be there, if you change your mind." She speared his eyes with hers. "Tender, moist...really, really moist." She waited.

"Of that, I have no doubt. And thanks...for the kind - and repeated - offer, but, no."

She handed him a large Buy More bag, everything inside it. She gave him a regretful but good-natured final shrug: "_Thank you_."

* * *

Morgan was seated beside Batgirl. Beside Zondra.

He was fighting to keep from stealing glances at her, and losing in a rout. Catching a furtive glance, Zondra grinned at him. "So, Morgan, do you crash your bike into every woman you see, or did I just get lucky?"

Morgan turned to look at her directly. She had been quiet since she had arranged for the flight. She had looked at him several times as they drove to the airport but had not spoken. He was unsure what to make of her grin or her question now - or her earlier looks.

"Did you get _lucky_?" Morgan asked, a little too loudly. A second later, he heard his own question. "Oh, God. I mean, um, um, I don't know that having me crash my bike into you counts as lucky, exactly."

Zondra grew thoughtful. "Well, I admit I'm sore as hell, and a lot of that is your doing, although the rest of it was that Jill Robertson woman, the bitch with the glasses and the gun. But I do think I got...lucky." Her unreadable grin reappeared.

"Yeah, well…" Morgan fished around for something to say, glad Zondra was talking to him but intimidated as hell by her too. Her eyes were a shade of brown Morgan only knew to call _intense._ "...I can say that I don't do that to every woman I see. You were my first." Morgan heard his own comment a second later, again. He squeezed his eyes shut, then smacked his own face. "Geez, that's not...I mean...not that I…"

Zondra took his slap hand in hers. Her hand was surprisingly soft, her grip surprisingly soft too, though he could feel the strength there. "Morgan, I am honored to be your first." She bowed her head.

He had no response to her that would not make him feel more awkward, so he just sat there like a bearded Pet Rock, afraid to acknowledge her hand on his and terrified that she would remove it. She did not; she left it there.

She looked away from him, looked out the window at the darkening sky. "I've never been to Montana. What about you?"

"No. I've never been anywhere. Once, when I was eight, my mom took me to Legoland." He shut his eyes again and gulped. "I know that must sound lame to someone like you, leading a life of international intrigue."

She barked a laugh, loud enough that several other passengers looked at them. "Morgan, what do you think I do all day, most days? Let me tell you what I _don't_ do. Dress in expensive gowns and foil international terror plots hatched by dark but handsomely mysterious bad guys.

"Evil is not mysterious, Morgan. It's always the same. Twisted selfish bullshit. Evil is one note. It's goodness that's different, goodness that's mysterious.

"Most days, I spend my time telling lies to petty crooks while they stare at my chest, I spend it hoping I can get them to rat on their bosses, who turn out to be other equally petty crooks, but just accidentally on a higher rung in a gonzo, evil Ponzi scheme." She shrugged. "You get used to it, I guess. Try to tell yourself it's just a job. Do the job. Try to do it well, whatever that means in the midst of so much that's so bad. Worry about promotions...demotions...spy versions of office politics."

She turned and looked at him again. "What I don't do is spend time with...human beings, human men. I don't spend time with men who are amateurs at bravery, amateurs not because they bungle but because their bravery is motivated by love. The men I've known have been professionally brave, brave for selfish reasons, mouthing words like 'duty' but ultimately as self-serving as the petty crooks who are supposed to be on the other side.."

Morgan had no idea what to say to her, to all that. She gave his hand a squeeze, hard but not enough to hurt. Obviously, all this had been much on her mind.

Morgan decided to switch topics. "Who was it you texted to get us this flight?"

"Brown is his name. He told me when he arranged the flight."

"And he's helping you, us, Chuck and Sarah...But I get the feeling he's not exactly acting in the chain of command?"

Zondra contracted her brows. "How did you know?"

"Well, he obviously helped you at first without you knowing who he was. That made me think…"

She smiled at him. "And think right. He hasn't explained it to me, but he's suspicious of what's going on with Graham - and I am too. Graham should have told me about Sarah, Chuck, but he didn't. Not even when I asked why Ellie would know who Sarah was. Why would he want Ellie...eliminated?"

Morgan felt anger bubble inside him. "I don't know, but I'm with Ellie: _fuck Graham_."

Zondra's face became unreadable again. "Well, I'm on this plane, so I guess I agree."

* * *

"Damn," Casey muttered, flicking his eyes up into the rearview to meet Frost's deadly stare.

"So you think your son has his dad in his head? Talk about the child being father to the man!"

Carina punched Casey's shoulder., hard "You know that's not what that means."

He looked quickly at Carina - her blue eyes infinitely more pleasant than Frost's. "Yeah, well, how about '_The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on edge_'?"

Carina's gaze shifted subtly, saddened, and she opened her fist and rubbed Casey's shoulder where she punched him. Silence fell in the car. Casey saw a look pass between Frost and Sarah, a look of worry, the look laced with regret for Frost, and laced with sorrow for Sarah.

"Well, it's one hell of a way to concretize daddy issues," Casey said, just trying to end the silence. "So, really, his _dad _is in his head?"

Frost shook her head as she answered. "No. It's not like Chuck is possessed, at least not by Stephen, his actual father. We need Ellie, a doctor, not Father Karras, an exorcist." Frost actually smiled at her quip. "The Intersect, even in its earliest forms, took on a life of its own when hosted, a life that it constructs atop and out of the life of the host. It..._I don't know_...slowly becomes the host or the host slowly becomes it…" She frowned to herself. "It's like a marriage partners who come to resemble each other over time: as the Intersect provides content, information it also copies content, information."

Frost looked out the window. She sighed. "I really don't understand much of this. And clearly Stephen went on working on it after we...parted."

Casey glanced at Carina and she shrugged at him. _Parted? _Casey did not ask.

Frost went on. "The Intersect has various problems, but the worst problem with the Intersect is caused by the copying...It copies emotions. But the Intersect cannot properly process emotion, particularly strong negative emotion, unrequited love, pain, hatred..._wrath_.

"Because it can't, it 'runs' the emotion over and over, or fragments of it, memories of it, in response to anything that "resembles an environmental cue" - that's how Stephen once put it. It keeps trying to 'process' the emotion.

"It copies the emotion but it can't cope with it, can't find a way to make the emotion make sense, become part of a life, a history. So the host experiences the emotion over and over, always afresh. Digital PTSD. The better version, the one Chuck has, handles emotions better, but it still fails ultimately to cope with them, and that failure is one reason why it ends up harming the host, a psychological harm added to the physiological harms."

Carina turned in her seat, holding her seatbelt away from her body so she could. "So, that means that if an emotion like that, wrath or something, gets copied, the person who has the Intersect is condemned to...living and reliving...the emotion? Whether it is his or not?"

In the rearview, Casey saw Frost pale in her seat and her eyes gathered tears . "Yes." Carina rotated back in her seat. "You see," Frost added, "the Intersect, at least last I knew, keeps its copies. Stephen had the Intersect and it copied him. That's my guess. Now Chuck has it, and the Stephen version in Chuck's head is slowly copying Chuck, and copying Stephen into Chuck. Stephen had the technology to copy the Intersect in someone's head, but as far as I knew, he had no technology for removing it from anyone's head."

Frost turned to stare out the window. Casey saw Sarah reach over and put a soft hand on Frost's shoulder, but Frost did not respond to it.

After a moment, in the new silence, Frost whispered aloud. "Oh, _Orion,_ what have we done."

_Orion? _Without thinking, caught up in the moment, Casey looked at Sarah in the mirror. "Orion? Isn't that the guy you chased all over Europe, a termination target?"

Sarah's eyes went wide.

Frost wheeled toward her, smacking Sarah's hand away. "What? What did he just say?" Frost spat out each word like a dagger. The silence became poisonous.

"You _hunted _my husband, Orion?"

Sarah nodded slowly. "Graham gave me a termination order. National security risk. I only knew the target as Orion. I couldn't catch up with him."

Frost bared her teeth, a taunting, growling smile - and a threat. "I told you he was a spy."

Frost turned back to the window. Casey tried to send a visual apology to Sarah, but she was staring at Frost's back.

Carina gave Casey a reproachful look.

_Shit._

* * *

As bad as her life as Graham's enforcer had been, Sarah had to admit, she had lived through better days.

A lot had gotten clearer, and some of it made her feel better. Better in the midst of despair.

She now understood, or hoped she did, Chuck's running hot and cold with her. She even understood (she blushed to think of it and had omitted it from her narration to Frost) why Chuck had urged her to put something on their first night together, after she witnessed her first flash. He had done it for her; he thought his dad was there.

She did not completely understand why Chuck had not just told her what was going on, although the more she thought about that, the more she suspected it was because he could not tell her. The Intersect was preventing it somehow, jamming the gears. He had told her, to the extent that he had, in jokes, and presumably that was why the words slipped past the Intersect. Chuck spoke them without the intention of telling her anything - his intention was mere self-mockery. Evidently, the Intersect was no more adept with rhetorical figures than it was negative emotions.

Still, despite her growing clarity about Chuck's plight, Chuck was gone. And he had tranqed Sarah and his mother. _How far gone was he?_ _How much of Chuck, her Chuck, had the Intersect claimed for itself?_ What a strange enemy, an inhuman usurper from within.

Of course, Sarah knew about internal battles. She had spent her life running from them, doing all she could to avoid any reckoning with herself or her past.

That was just to have fought a different battle though, the battle to avoid fighting her battles. _No matter where you run, how hard, how long, you can't escape yourself. You turn out to always already be there, waiting on yourself, in whatever distant location. Sarah had found herself enshadowed, awaiting herself, in cities all over the world, in Langley, in her DC apartment. _

She was now forced into a reckoning. Budapest, the daycare, Chuck...now Frost. Sarah kept seeing images of herself everywhere: in the eyes of a tiny baby, the eyes of innocent children, Chuck's warm brown eyes, Frost's arctic blue ones.

Sarah did not know how to fuse those images. They confused her. It was hard to have just found your heart and then to find it hurting so much. It was better than thinking you did not have one, though. She did not welcome the hurt, but she welcomed the wholeness.

The image of herself she saw in Frost's eyes terrified Sarah. It was the image of herself that had kept her working, running, avoiding herself for almost a decade. Worse, with Frost, Sarah's image was doubled: there was the image in Frost's eyes, but there was also Frost herself. To what extent was Sarah Frost, _Frost's second coming?_ That had been the joke at the Farm; it had played a role in her being dubbed 'Ice Queen'.

Maybe it was true. Maybe she was Frost Redux. She had managed to avoid seductions of the sort that Frost had not, of the sort that did so much to destroy Stephen and Frost's family, but Sarah's body count was no doubt higher - Frost had not been wrong about that difference in their files. And now Frost knew that Stephen would almost certainly have been one of those bodies if Sarah had found him.

Chuck had gotten past that, somehow. Sarah was not sure Frost ever would. That baring of her teeth, that threat - the issue was not finished between them.

Carina was right. It was a hell of a way to meet your boyfriend's mother, and a hell of a mother to meet. Sarah glanced again at Frost. Frost's back still faced Sarah, eloquent.

* * *

Brown was limping along a hallway in Langley, his cane tapping. He had on his sweater but he was not going to Graham's office.

It took effort, but Brown identified the computer in Langley from which the attempt on his had been made. He knew the office number; he knew a name. There was a mole in Langley, and Brown was willing to bet the mole was Fulcrum.

Brown thought about last night. He had been the conduit that allowed Sarah to talk to Ellie. When Sarah first tried to call, she had gotten no answer. She texted Brown, concerned that she could not reach Ellie and hoping he knew something. He did, of course. He put the women in touch with each other. It was only after the call ended - a couple of hours after it ended - that Brown realized he had yet to tell Chuck and Sarah that Bryce Larkin was alive. He sent Sarah a text, but he had heard nothing from her. He wondered why that was. At any rate, Chuck and Sarah and Casey and Carina should all be on their way to Bozeman.

Brown was not planning to confront the mole. He just wanted to see the man, be sure. Brown knew him slightly, but, although the man was an analyst, he had not worked directly with Brown.

Brown also wanted to plant a bug in the man's office. His progress was slow. He had hardly slept since this all started, since getting assigned to Walker's mission. The truth was that he had hardly slept before the assignment. Sleep simply would not come after his father died.

His father. A policeman, a cop, stuffy and old-fashioned. _A worker for the public weal, _his dad said of himself often. A good man. He had been a cop in Boston when so many cops were corrupt. By refusing the corruption, his father had chosen a life that was a two-front war, under attack by the (supposed) good guys and by the bad guys. But his father had fought that war, and still managed to give Brown and his mother a good life. His father had been a noble man, a man of fortitude.

In Langley, Brown was surrounded by the ignoble. People like the mole. Like Langston Graham.

_Graham_. Graham's concern about Chuck Bartowski was not only, not even primarily, a concern about national security. The termination order on Ellie Bartowski proved it.

Cane tapping, Brown neared the mole's office. He knew he was now the hub of a hastily assembled group of rogue spies - but rogue for good. People with some nobility left, enough, even if they had been compromised by the lives they led, perhaps compromised before they chose those lives. He knew that the situation was precarious. It might all fall apart at any moment.

Brown had to get them through this, get himself through this. He was rogue too, no denying it now. But given Fulcrum's infiltration of the CIA and NSA, maybe this was the only available strategy for fighting them: to break from the agencies and go it alone. If they could wound Fulcrum badly, or even - Brown smiled grimly at the wording - cripple Fulcrum, then he and his people could ask for forgiveness despite not having asked for permission.

Brown stopped, took a breath, and knocked on the mole's door.

* * *

"What did you say," Bryce hissed into the phone. "Gone? A fire? An explosion? No one saw or heard anything? The guards all dead or missing? And why am I only hearing about this NOW?" His hiss became a scream.

He ended the call and looked at Jill. She was afraid, cowering. "Get our things." Bryce ordered, gesturing to their luggage in the hotel room, pulling himself together. He continued, back to the hiss. "Bartowski destroyed Outlook."

* * *

The pain in Chuck's head lessened as he stepped into the Montana State campus library. He had checked online but the Intersect had been right, no flash necessary: Chuck's old professor from Stanford, the one who had gotten him kicked out, Fleming, was now part of the MSU psychology department, the holder of an Endowed Chair. Chuck pressed his lips into a line, the voice in his head sounding metallic: _~The Fulcrum Chair, that's what they should call it. _

Chuck wove in and out of the stacks until he found an empty carrell. He sat down. He had the computer he had bought and his dad's computer in a new backpack. Earlier, downtown in Bozeman, at a gun shop, he had bought other supplies he needed. He had left most of those in the car - no reason to try to get them in and out of the library, he hoped. Atop his head was a replacement cap, a new _International Harvester _cap, a red one, with a large block 'I' in the center. The backpack and hat were campus camouflage.

He got out the new computer and went to work. As before, the speed and accuracy and insight with which he worked were a surprise. And then he stopped typing and stared at the wall of the carrell. Metallic voice. His dad's voice becoming metallic. _It's not my dad talking to me, it's the damn Intersect's version of my dad. _Chuck shook his head. His dad, or rather the Intersect, had more or less told him that to begin with, but it seemed so much like his dad, especially at first, that Chuck had allowed himself to think of it that way. But it had never been his dad, a copy, maybe, but never Stephen Bartowski - how could it have been? Chuck had let his unrecognized longing for, need for, his father create the illusion that Stephen was really there, in Chuck's head. But that was crazy. Stephen Bartowski was a man, a human being, not a routine in a vast, complex program. People weren't digitizable, despite the fantasies of computer science professors and sci-fi conventioneers.

The metallic voice had been a constant give-away, if Chuck had simply focused on it. Chuck's head was not occupied by his father exactly, it was occupied by an AI-program that had copies bits and pieces of his father but was not thereby made into his father. All this time, talking to the damn Intersect. _Idiot. You are supposed to be smart, Chuck. _The problem was that the Intersect no longer seemed like his dad, or like itself. It was starting to seem like _him, _like Chuck.

_Chuck vs. Chuck_. _Chuck vs. iChuck._

He wanted to contact Sarah. He started to get up, to go find a phone.

His head conflagrated in pain. Unbearable. Burning, burning, burning.

He sat back down, badly shaken and shaking, his eyes squeezed shut, tears running from them, rolling down his cheeks. _I can't call her. ~I can't trust her. ~I can't trust Mary. I love her. ~I don't._

The pain subsided a little and Chuck was able to open his eyes. He sat, blinking. After long moments, he wiped his cheeks. He felt sane and insane, controlled and out-of-control.

His face slackened and he went back to work on the computer. As he did, the pain continued to decrease,the flames subsided. After a few minutes, he fished the flash drive out of his pocket, the drive he used to download Fulcrum's Intersect. He put it in the computer and opened it, not running the program but consulting the programming itself.

_Let's see what Fulcrum's done to my Intersect._ Chuck studied the programming for a long time, lost in it.

Eventually, the library lights flicked on and off quickly, an alert that it was about to close. Chuck put his things away. Studying the program had been...enlightening.

Time to visit Fleming's office. The larger pattern was finally clearing.

* * *

A/N: Some technical writing stuff below. Feel free to skip it. But please, please leave a review. Let me know what you're thinking.

Continued thanks to Beckster1213 and David Carner.

Chapter Theme: _Love Went Mad, _Elvis Costello and the Attractions

* * *

Since a couple of folks mentioned finding the story tricky to follow (it is), I thought I would comment on what I am doing; perhaps that will help.

(Of course, to the extent that the confusions are caused my bumbling and ineptness, I can only apologize.)

Like almost all my stories, this one strives for a rounded form. Among other things, that means that I am always circling back to reclaim earlier comments, conversations, scenes. That circling back puts demands on the reader: you have to remember the things to which I am circling back. That's tricky in a story as complicated as this one

Even worse, I am employing a multiplied version of _unreliable narration. _In a couple of early A/Ns, I warned that the story is shot through with self-deception, ignorance and ulterior motives. Everything in the story is presented inside the scope of a character's POV, and that character may be lying to others, lying to herself, or ignorant, confused, etc. Even when a character is sincere, she may be wrong - as a result of ignorance or confusion or self-deception. Also, since everything is scoped within a POV, sometimes important things get said of which the speaker does not realize the importance. The story centers on notions of trust/mistrust and the reader, like Ellie, is constantly being forced to decide whose version of events to trust/mistrust.

For most of the story I have tried to keep the characters in the moment and to give them little access to the larger picture, so they have not been able to help the reader keep that larger picture in mind. That's slowly changing, _but only slowly_. The descriptions of Chuck's flashes as clear subpatterns in an unclear larger pattern are both fictional and metafictional. Metafictionally, they are meant to characterize the story's unfolding.

I have wanted the story to create a simulacrum in the reader of the experience of the characters, particularly Chuck. So his confusion and disorientation (notice how important the words 'orientation' and 'disorientation' are to the story, their frequent appearance) have purposely been presented so as to be represented in the mind of the reader. That means that I am trying to _create _a certain feeling of confusion in my reader, at least in some sections of the story.

Juxtaposed sections are often contrapuntal. For instance, in the last chapter it matters that Ellie, Morgan and Zondra's conversation about Sarah the assassin is stationed alongside Sarah kneeling at Frost''s feet and tending Frost's burns. And so on. Contrapuntal relationships criss-cross the story.

(By the way, I don't I believe anything I am doing is particularly original. Nor do I claim I am succeeding at it. I am characterizing the will, not the deed.)

What all this means is that the story requires a close, steady, deliberate reading (and likely _re-readings_), a serious effort on the reader's part. I understand that some may not want to make the effort or invest the time. No problem, no one is forcing anyone to read this. And if someone can get it all without making a serious effort, well, _cool!_ I don't want it this to be hard, I just wanted to write a certain kind of story. (And I have tried to help by not stringing the posting out too much.)

Z


	26. Chapter 24: The WABAC Machine

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

A short chapter to prepare us for the stretch run of Book Two.

* * *

_His exhausted mind felt tender, sore - blistered all over. Still, he felt more or less like himself. Except for the need, the urge, the need: _deal with Fulcrum, destroy Fulcrum_. _

"_I love you, Chuck." The memory of Sarah's gentle whisper, the words she had spoken, had been in his mind since he parked the car, her words his life-preserver._

_She shrugged. "You get used to it, I guess. Try to tell yourself it's just a job. Do the job. Try to do it well, whatever that means in the midst of so much that's so bad. Worry about promotions...demotions...spy versions of office politics." _

"_Yeah, well, how about 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on edge'?"_

_Sarah kept seeing images of herself everywhere: in the eyes of a tiny baby, the eyes of innocent children, Chuck's warm brown eyes, Frost's arctic blue ones. _

_Chuck's old professor from Stanford, the one who had gotten him kicked out, Fleming, was now part of the MSU psychology department, the holder of an Endowed Chair. Chuck pressed his lips into a line, the voice in his head sounding metallic: _~The Fulcrum Chair, that's what they should call it.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

**The WABAC Machine**

* * *

Monday night

* * *

Chuck found, as expected, an open door on the side of Traphagen Hall, the building that housed the MSU Psychology department. Or, rather, a door was wedged open, a partially crushed Coke bottle keeping the door from fully closing.

The ground around the door was littered with cigarette butts - a hideaway smoking area of a kind that existed all over campuses across the country. Chuck remembered some from Stanford, standing in them - even though he did not smoke - talking with computer engineering professors - who did smoke - after class, talking.

Stanford. It had all been so exciting, exciting at the beginning and more exciting each year. He met Bryce Larkin freshman year and had entered a new world, another one, alongside the intellectual world he entered there.

_Bryce Larkin. _Bryce was popular, instantly winning, always a winner. As Bryce's friend, Chuck got ushered into a new world: fraternities, parties, beautiful young women. And while Chuck had been smart enough to know none of that was really for him _per se_ \- he had been invited as _Bryce's friend_ \- it was still so exciting. Chuck enjoyed it all, enjoyed Bryce as King of it all, from the sidelines, or leaning against a wall. The women were there for Bryce, not Chuck, but Chuck got to talk to them and interact with them, women he would never have interacted with otherwise. Chuck understood, without Bryce ever saying it in so many words, that Chuck was there as Bryce's tag-along: Bryce was the superhero, Chuck the sidekick. His job was to show that Bryce had _depth - _that Bryce had intellectual chops, that Bryce could graciously condescend as King of Stanford to entertain Chuck, King of the Otherwise Ignored.

Ellie, on her first campus visit after Bryce befriended Chuck, picked up on the terms of their friendship immediately: "Yeah, that Bryce, he's a dick."

"No, Ellie, he's great. Really great. Being his friend is...well, a privilege."

"You're the friend of a privileged dick."

Chuck had not been able to persuade Ellie otherwise, and over time, she had come to dislike Bryce more - and that was before the horrible end of things at Stanford. Chuck knew that part of Ellie's deep frustration with his five-year ambition coma was that she thought it was Bryce-induced.

But, however that went, what Bryce did that cemented and proved their friendship for Chuck was to introduce Chuck to Jill.

"She's perfect for you, Chuck."

The truth was, _perfect_, for Chuck, was a blonde Hitchcock leading lady, Grace Kelly first, Eva Marie Saint, Kim Novak third - the Holy Trinity. But Bryce's choice otherwise had been right.

Jill was, if not perfect, _amazing_. Lovely, not _trumpet lovely_ but _flute lovely_: soft, intelligent, sensitive, more alluring over time, possessed of a grin that was intimate and fun and sweet all at the same time. Chuck, who had never had a girlfriend, who rarely dated, plummeted like a stone.

Looking back, he wondered if he had ever loved her as he thought he had. Even before the end, the horrible end, she had seemed reticent, hesitant - as he thought their feelings were deepening, and as she claimed that they were, he felt like she was withholding some part of herself. But Chuck had convinced himself that was just her apprehension about graduating, starting a life, presumably together, somewhere. Now he wondered if he had been mistaken, if there had been some other source of the reticence. Odd as it sounded, it was Sarah's lack of reticence over the past few days, her openness to him, despite his strangeness, that made him wonder about Jill. All he knew was that he never felt _shared-with _when with Jill as he did when with Sarah. _-No, that is not all I know: I also know that whatever I felt for Jill, even given the time it had to develop and deepen, is incomparable to what I feel for Sarah. _

He had kept Sarah in mind despite gathering his things from the car and heading to Fleming's office. He couldn't keep other thoughts from crowding in, a drain of constant, nagging mistrust, warnings about betrayal, swirling doubts, images of his mother as a young woman. He held onto Sarah and let the other thoughts vortex around him. He might now be able to reach out to Sarah, given the Intersected static interfering with his bodily volition, but the Intersect could not really control his thoughts, although it could confuse them, speaking to him now in his own voice, not his father's. _Sarah. _

Chuck finished climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, the floor of Fleming's office. He left the stairway through the fire door and walked down the hallway. He stopped outside Fleming's door. A nameplate affixed to the door declared it to be the office of _The Wainfleet Endowed Chair in Psychology, I. Fleming. _ An old Far Side cartoon was the only thing affixed to the door, a well-known one: two deer standing upright in the forest, one of them with an apparent bullseye on his chest, the other, looking at it and commenting: "_Bummer of a birthmark, Hal._"

Chuck realized that Fleming had the same cartoon affixed to his Stanford door. It made Chuck think back to his first semester, the freshman seminar he had taken with Fleming, the seminar in which Chuck met Bryce, a seminar called, simply and confusingly, _Brain-Mind_. Chuck recalled his excitement at the first meeting of the course and recalled chuckling at the black and white drawing of a brain in the upper left-hand corner of the syllabus. The seminar had been intense, enlightening. It had at times reminded Chuck of conversations with his father, before his father disappeared. Fleming's thinking and his father's were similar, at least to the extent that Chuck could remember - and understood - his conversations with his father.

The focus of the course was on learning, on the contrast and relationship between the knowledge and retention of information and the development and employment of habits. Fleming had been brilliant, spellbinding. The class was so good that the students typically moved _en masse_ from the classroom to a nearby coffee shop to talk and to argue. That was where Chuck and Bryce first started talking, there in the coffee shop, where their friendship began.

Chuck shook his head in regret. _What had gone wrong? _Other than Morgan, Bryce had been Chuck's only real friend. That friendship had been terrific, _hadn't it?, _until suddenly it was not, until Bryce accused Chuck of cheating - and Jill had cheated on Chuck with Bryce.

Chuck refocused on the Far Side cartoon. He identified with Hal. _Bummer of a birthmark, indeed. The Bartowski Family Curse. _Chuck had never thought of that before, but it seemed to fit. He felt cursed. What had happened between his mom and his dad: a curse. He meets Sarah only to run from her - twice. What explained all that, and all the other shit in his life and his head, but a curse, a bummer of a birthmark? Born with a target on his chest, subject to forces outside his control, Daffy in _Duck Amuck. _

He shook his head again. _Fulcrum_. The Intersect connected Fleming to Fulcrum. Chuck needed to get inside Fleming's office. He took off his backpack and knelt beside it. He pulled out a slim piece of metal and went to work. Another thing he did not know how to do he did, did it knowledgeably. The door opened. _The Farm. I am a spy. _

Chuck stowed the strip of metal and grabbed the flashlight from the bag, then put the bag on his back. He could feel the gun in one of his coat pockets, but he left it there. A burner phone, bought earlier, was in the other. The office was dark. Chuck stepped inside and closed the door. _Fulcrum_. He started his search by running the light along the bookshelves. Books were not neatly arranged - they looked used, consulted. Some were horizontal. On some shelves, the books were two rows deep. Nothing attracted Chuck's immediate attention. He walked around the large wooden desk and sat down in Fleming's desk chair. He pulled open the top drawer. A profusion of pens and pencils and paper. The second drawer contained copies of academic papers, old syllabi, old _Thank You_ cards from students.

Chuck shut the drawer, reached out and turned on Fleming's computer, an older laptop open on the desk. It came to life. Almost instantly, Chuck had zipped past the protections on the computer. That he had done it so fast, given that it was Fleming's computer, gave Chuck a sinking feeling. If getting into Fleming's computer were so easy, there was likely nothing on it worth seeing. That proved to be true. Chuck checked and double-checked, but nothing stood out. Chuck sat back in the desk chair. Fleming must do his real work, his own Fulcrum research lab work, somewhere else - perhaps not even on campus.

But where? How was Fleming involved? The Intersect steered Chuck to him, it felt like Fleming was key, but had supplied nothing that explained exactly why Fleming mattered so much.

Chuck was not sure why he had not flashed since - well, since seeing his mom chained to the wall, if his reaction to that counted as a flash. There'd been nothing that flashed before his mind's eye, no force-feed of facts or data points, just an overwhelming, vertiginous pain, and sorrow. _Scottie Ferguson. Hitchcock. Kim Novak. Mary. Sarah. _Chuck's heart hurt and he swiveled in the office chair.

Chuck noticed a yellowed folded newspaper on the radiator below Fleming's window, below the closed blind. Chuck grabbed it and swiveled back around. He had taken several classes with Fleming at Stanford, the last one during his senior year. Fleming seemed to think highly of Chuck, to like him. Chuck had coffee with him a few times outside of class. A couple of times, Fleming suggested that Chuck participate in Psychology department experiments. Chuck assumed it was because he knew that Chuck, although a scholarship student, had little spending money, and because Fleming thought Chuck would find the process of interest. Both were true. Both experiments turned out to be connected to Fleming's own work, so Chuck had a better sense of it when Chuck signed up for what he expected to be his final Fleming class. Chuck had not expected it to be his final Stanford class.

The class was devoted to a more finely-tuned examination of the issues opened in Chuck's freshman _Brain-Mind _seminar, and its treatment of the issues was practical - digital, you might say, instead of conceptual. Bryce had been in that class too. The class focused on digital encoding, pattern recognition - on questions in AI that were descendent of questions like the old gestalt psychologists had asked. In many ways, the class was ground-breaking. Fleming had new, fascinating ideas about how part/whole relationships worked, not just in human learning, but in any transfer of information. The old Cartesian idea that parts preceded wholes was rejected in favor of the idea that parts only meant something, were prior to wholes, in favor of the idea that parts were only bearers of information when they were part of a prior whole that meant something.

Chuck had been convinced.

The theory struck him as right, as an AI-version of Gottlob Frege's _Context Principle_ \- "Never ask for the meaning of a word in isolation, but only in the context of a sentence". But it also seemed true to practice, to the workings of Chuck's own mind. He was fascinated by the class, devouring the reading, working feverishly on assignments. Pretty quickly, the meetings of the class became largely conversations between Chuck and Fleming, with everyone else, Bryce especially, scrambling to keep up.

Chuck opened the newspaper. He looked through it in the light of the flashlight. Then he saw it. An article on Fleming, on his acceptance of the Endowed Chair at MSU. Atop the article was a picture of Fleming shaking hands with the MSU President.

Chuck looked at it. Chuck flashed.

* * *

Brown took off his sweater and sat down.

He dug a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow, the cold, nervous sweat.

He had done it. He played off his entrance into the analyst's office as a mistake. Other analysts used the space, and Brown claimed he had been looking for one of them. He had managed to press the bug into place beneath the analyst's desk when he wasn't looking. Then he had excused himself. One advantage of being older and lame was that Brown did not seem, in person, like any kind of threat. The analyst, distracted anyway, had not paid much attention to Brown, and had seemed only to want Brown to leave. But that also told Brown something: the analyst was clearly under pressure, anxious, and that meant that he was likely engaged in a task he did not want to be interrupted and certainly did not want to be identified.

Brown had made a purposely awkward exit, stressing his dependence on his cane, and left. He could now hear what was going on in the analyst's office. He was about to turn on the receiver when he phone lit up. Zondra, Ellie, and Morgan were on the ground in Bozeman. Brown sent a text to Sarah to tell her. A moment later he got a response. Sarah was en route, TBA one hour. Late.

Then another text: **Chuck is gone.**

Brown looked at the phone twice. **Where?**

**Unknown. West on I-90. We are hoping he's going to Bozeman, but we have no idea. Can you find him?**

Brown responded**: Getting to work.**

_Damn. What went on in Outlook? Why would Chuck be on his own? _Brown's hands shook as he put them on his keyboard. It was partly residual nerves. But it was mostly exhaustion. He could not keep this up much longer. He was going to make a mistake. Maybe he had already made one and did not know it.

He initiated a facial recognition search of cameras along the relevant section of I-90W, and of recent social media posts. He did the same for Bozeman. _Thank God_ \- Brown smiled grimly at the welcome unwelcome thought - _thank God the entire damn US is now effectively under surveillance_. His dad had hated that. _Part of the disease, _his dad loved to say, _we live in a spy's wet dream. _Brown made himself focus.

He had to find Chuck. Chuck had proven bizarrely capable, but Brown knew that each step was putting Chuck in more danger. How much further could Chuck go before he was in over his head? Bartowski needed Walker, everyone else.

Brown swallowed his exhaustion and extended himself digitally via his supercomputer, all along the length of Montana's portion of I-90W.

* * *

Ellie was standing beside Zondra in the Bozeman airport.

They had gotten a text from Brown. Sarah was due at any moment. Ellie had been pacing and Zondra had put a hand on her shoulder, wordlessly asking her to be calm. But Ellie was scared, scared for her brother, and she was tired, tired of not really knowing exactly what was going on, where things stood. She needed to talk to Sarah, to the _Enforcer. _Was Chuck really involved with an assassin? That thing in his head and a woman like that on his arm?

"Hey," Morgan said, standing on the other side of Zondra and pointing to a car outside. "Isn't that Sarah? Hard to make a mistake where she is concerned."

Ellie walked forward quickly. Sarah was out of the car - it was her, no mistake - and was walking inside. A woman with red hair had gotten out of the driver's seat and was following. A moment later, the man who had come to her apartment looking for Chuck, the military guy, got out of the front passenger seat. _What the hell? _Ellie's heart began to race.

Then the entire universe went into super slow-mo. Out of the rear passenger seat emerged a woman, handsome, in her middle fifties. The woman looked nervously into the airport but she did not see Ellie. Ellie's steps stopped. She froze. Without realizing it, she spoke aloud, just as Morgan caught up with her. "Mom?"

"Mrs. B?"

* * *

Sarah saw Ellie and Morgan. And then she saw her - Zondra Rizzo. _What is she doing here? _Sarah felt for her gun as she went in the doors. She saw her action register in Zondra's eyes, but Zondra did not respond in kind. Instead, she held up her hands, empty, and gave Sarah a forced smile.

Sarah kept her hand in place as she neared the group. "Hey, Ellie, I didn't know you were bringing...Company." Somehow Sarah said the last word so that the majuscule 'C' was audible.

"Sarah, she asked me not to tell you. She's with us - you know, _with-with_ us." Ellie answered automatically, a prepared answer, while looking beyond Sarah.

"Long time, no see, Sarah," Zondra said, her voice soft but softly challenging. "Never thought we'd meet again for the first time in Bozeman, Montana."

"Mom." Ellie stated, all color gone from her face, all emotion from her voice. Frost had walked up, along with Casey and Carina. Ellie gave herself a shake, pointedly turning from Frost and pretending to focus entirely on Sarah. "_Where's Chuck?_"

Sarah took a breath. "Gone, Ellie. We're not sure where. I've got...people looking for him, we will start looking for him as soon as we leave here."

"Zondra!' Carina said, stepping forward, toward the brunette, her tone deliberately carefree. "It's like Mr. Peabody's WABAC machine is just vomiting up folks at random." She glanced at Morgan. "So you must be Sherman?" She gave him no chance to answer, going on quickly. "This just keeps getting weirder. I'm so glad John and I decided to come. It's a veritable CATs reunion."

"Cats?" Frost asked, trying to ignore Ellie's studied ignoring of her. "What the hell do cats have to do with anything?"

Sarah's day kept getting worse.

* * *

A/N: Happy reunions everywhere, eh? Lots to be worked out, to the extent that it can. Tune in next time as Chuck plunges deeper into Fulcrum and into Fulcrum's Intersect plans. Ellie and Mary _chat_, Sarah and Zondra too. Oh, and Sarah and Ellie. Good times.

Chapter Theme: Oasis, _Don't Look Back in Anger_


	27. Chapter 25: Grey Matters?

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_Another thing he did not know how to do he did, and did it knowledgeably. The door opened. The Farm. I am a spy._

_Chuck had proven bizarrely capable, but Brown knew that each step was putting Chuck in more danger. How much further could Chuck go before he was in over his head?_

_Ellie's steps stopped. She froze. Without realizing it, she spoke aloud, just as Morgan caught up with her. "Mom?"_

"_Long time, no see, Sarah," Zondra said, her voice soft but softly challenging. "Never thought we'd meet again for the first time in Bozeman, Montana."_

"_Cats?" Frost asked, trying to ignore Ellie's studied ignoring of her. "What the hell do cats have to do with anything?"_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

**Grey Matters?**

* * *

Monday night, later

* * *

Sarah answered Frost's question. "Long story. It's not really 'cats', it's an acronym, CATs.".

Frost, speaking to Sarah but stealing a glance at Ellie, who was still resolutely ignoring her mother, responded, flatly. "Of course, it is."

Ellie, still pale, finally turned to her mother. "It _is_ you, isn't it? I thought...I hoped...you were _dead_." Ellie's inflection echoed the sentiment, dead and deadened. Frost winced, her eyes filled and she turned away from Ellie.

"I'll wait in the car." Frost strode away without a backward glance. Sarah watched Ellie watch her go, Sarah's heart aching for Ellie, for Frost.

Ellie stared mercilessly at Frost's back as she walked from the group. As Ellie watched, she muttered to herself but loud enough to be heard: "Now I _know_ it's her. This view of her is the one I recognize."

"Ellie…" Sarah began, but Ellie waved her hand at Sarah.

"I don't care. Not right now. Maybe never. If she's hurting, good, no, _great_ \- no matter what her story, she _deserves_ to hurt." Ellie continued to stare at Frost's back a moment longer. She finally turned to Sarah. "So tell me about my brother."

"I will, Ellie, everything, I promise. But not here." Sarah checked her phone. No word from Brown.

Morgan put his hand on Ellie's shoulder. "You know, Ellie, she was always nice, nice to me. Made me brownies, Rice Krispy treats…"

Ellie shook off Morgan's hand. "Don't start with me, Morgan. You know she atom-bombed my life. She left us in the fallout. She's the reason Dad left us, left after promising me pancakes…"

Ellie covered her face with her hands and leaned against Morgan. He put his arms around her. "I know, Ellie. I came over that morning, remember? The morning he left."

Ellie nodded, her hands still on her face. Zondra took a step toward Morgan and put out her hand to touch him, but then pulled it back. As she did, she realized Sarah was watching her. She stood like that, her hand partially extended, frozen in Sarah's gaze. And then she extended her hand and put it on Morgan's neck, rubbing it as he held Ellie. Zondra did not look back at Sarah.

The whole spectacle made Sarah want to cry. Her emotions were stretched, almost torn - her worry for Chuck felt like it was consuming her from the inside out, but all this added pain and distress, the surprise of Zondra…

Sarah turned to Casey. "Can you rent us another car? Untraceable?" He nodded, listening to her but watching the others. "Good. I've...I've got to go to the restroom. Carina can...fill you in on Zondra."

Sarah dropped her eyes so as not to see any more of the scene and headed toward the restroom. She went inside and straight to the sink. Twisting the tap, she cupped her hands beneath it, filling them with cold water, then she splashed it on her face. It helped. She felt her feet under her again after losing track of them for a few minutes. Water was dripping off her chin when Carina walked in and stood beside her. Carina looked around and, satisfied they were alone, she put her arms around Sarah.

"Welcome to life after the thaw, sweetie."

Sarah rolled her eyes at Carina but she nodded a moment later. "Thanks, Carina. It's all...so much. I can't lose him, I just can't. And all this too..."

"Well, you haven't lost him yet - or only temporarily. I know Zondra was a shock. For me too. I guess I never got caught up in all that between you two - unlike you, I didn't know what to believe - but I know that seeing her has to have upset you. And that scene with Frost and her daughter. Do you think Ellie realizes how much they're alike? That reaction...it was one _Frosty_ reaction to Frost, wasn't it?"

Sarah gazed at Carina. "Since when have you really paid attention to anyone's emotional life, Carina, even your own? I mean, I'm sorry but…"

Carina smiled thinly, shaking her head. "No, I get it, Sarah. Neither of us has been much in contact with how she feels - for a long time, I think. I thought it was just you. But we've used different strategies to stay out-of-contact. Let's just say that the other night my feelings snuck up on me, and I haven't been able to shake them since. And now they keep making me consider the feelings of others. What a colossal pain in the ass!"

Sarah laughed then smirked, her worry and sadness under better control because of her friend. "_Colossal pain in the ass,_ huh? Is that your pet name for Casey? And if it is," Sarah added with a pleading gesture, "_please_ don't explain it further."

Carina blushed, although Sarah was not entirely sure of the object of the blush. But Carina offered nothing more, neither confirming nor denying anything.

* * *

Sarah was going to drive the car they arrived in. Casey had rented another car. He was going to drive it.

Introductions, such as were necessary, had taken place inside and been presided over by Sarah. They had been brief and perfunctory. The group was beset with multiple tensions, and beyond that with a general unease and dissatisfaction. Not exactly a cohesive team. Not exactly. Not remotely.

Frost, who had been standing outside by herself, got into the car with Casey. So did Carina. Morgan slid in the back seat with Frost.

Sarah, Ellie, and Zondra climbed in the other car. They had picked a hotel to use while they awaited word from Brown, or word from Chuck, although Sarah was not optimistic about the latter, not with the Intersect squatting in Chuck's head, interfering, pushing.

Zondra had gotten in the back seat, Ellie in the front passenger seat. Sarah twitched her eyes to the rearview only to find Zondra's staring back at her. Ellie, ignoring the interaction, although she noticed it, faced Sarah as the car left the airport. The intermittent lights along the road and the frequent headlights kept everyone in the car visible, held and released in a mild yellow-white strobing.

"So, before you tell me anything else, Sarah Walker, _Enforcer_," Sarah glared into the rearview at Zondra when that word came off Ellie's lips; Zondra shrugged, "tell me what is going on between you and my brother. That phone call suggested...well, you tell me. And tell me the whole goddamn truth. So, you and Chuck?"

Sarah would have found this conversation awkward under any circumstance but with Zondra in the back, obviously listening with interest, she found it hard to make her mouth move at all. But then she thought about Zondra's gesture toward Morgan, and she understood it, the hesitancy. Zondra had gone on, though, completed the gesture. In light of that, Sarah could manage a few words.

"We're..._together,_ Ellie."

Ellie nodded. "Okay, that's a start. Not conversation yet, but - little steps for little feet. What does 'together' mean?" The look in Ellie's eyes reminded Sarah of the look in Frost's when they had talked in the barn. Carina was right. Ellie was her mother's daughter. Seriously. Both hell on wheels.

"'Together' means _together._"

Ellie shook her head, her eyes narrowing. "No. Well, yes, _obviously._ But you aren't going to take cover in a tautology, _Agent Walker._ I demand information. _Have you fucked my brother?_"

Sarah's eyes widened. Sarah saw Zondra see it in the mirror and Zondra's eyes did the same, then Zondra bit her lower lip, waiting for Sarah's response to Ellie's _über_-directness. Sarah reddened slowly; she could feel the climb of it up her neck to her cheeks. She knew Ellie could see it. Zondra too. _Damn headlights_. She was a deer in them.

"I tell you what," Ellie declared, "we can let that blush count as a decided _yes._" Ellie paused, like a courtroom lawyer amping up the drama, clearly relishing Sarah's discomfort, "Now, did you do that just because my brother is, although he refuses to own it, a beautifully and wonderfully made man, or did you do it because you understand that _he_ is beautiful and wonderful?"

Zondra was suppressing a laugh. Sarah studied the road, the taillights of the car Casey was driving. Finally, she answered, the words suddenly geysering out as she opened her mouth. "Oh, Ellie, _he is beautiful and wonderful!_"

Without giving anyone time to react, including herself, Ellie pressed her next question. "And you _love_ him?"

"Yes."

The word was out before Sarah knew it, before she deliberated, drawn from her by her own earlier answer. Voluntary involuntary confession. Happy words, despite the situation.

Momentary silence.

Sarah checked the rearview. Zondra was looking down at her lap, thoughtful. Sarah glanced at Ellie, held Ellie's eyes, and smiled - a huge smile. "Yes, Ellie, yes, yes. I _love_ Chuck."

Ellie turned to look out the front of the car. "Good, Sarah, that's so good. Really good. I thought so, hoped so. At least I was right about something. One bright spot in all this dark." Ellie wiped at her eyes. She took Sarah's hand in hers and gave it a quick squeeze.

No one spoke again. After a few minutes, they arrived at the hotel.

* * *

Morgan looked at Mrs. B.

Close up, her eyes were so bluely sad that it hurt him to see them. She gave Morgan a tight smile, effortful but not unreal. She had always been kind to him, welcomed him at their house when Morgan - a _latchkey_ sort of kid, with no dad, and a mother who was busy working - needed someone. She had encouraged Chuck to befriend Morgan.

As he looked at her profile - she was gazing ahead but kept looking back toward the car behind them - he realized with both surprise and embarrassment that Mary was the source of much of his long-standing infatuation with Ellie. He had displaced his feelings of indebtedness and loyalty from Mary to Ellie when Mrs. B had disappeared. Given that, it was not too surprising that over the next few years that feeling would transfigure into infatuation with Ellie.

It wasn't that Morgan had any sort of _Stacy's Mom-_thing for Mrs. B, well, maybe _a smidgen, a skoosh (she did sort of look like Sarah Conner)_, but whatever of that there was, it was only a small part of his complex of feelings for her. Morgan wondered at himself: _Why did I never see that before? _He knew the answer: _because I was too deep in my feelings for Ellie to be objective at all. _But now, now that he had met Zondra, though he was sure nothing was to come of it, he had been able to step back from himself and his feelings and understand them

He reached out hesitantly and put his hand on Mrs. B's shoulder. "She'll get over it, Mrs. B. It's just a shock, a big shock, and she's missed you for so long."

She gazed at Morgan, the sad blue of her eyes warming a little. "I've missed her for so long too, though I doubt she'll believe me. I'm not sure she should. I'm not entirely sure I believe me, however much sense that makes."

Morgan laughed. "You're talking to the choir. My self-disbelief runs so deep I doubt that it exists."

Mrs. B's face twisted but then the twist became a small smile. "That's good, Morgan, but you always were funny, even as a boy. I enjoyed your time at our place."

"Me too. Never forgotten it. I would, frankly, _kill_ for one of your Rice Krispy treats."

Mrs. B's face darkened. Morgan was not sure why. "May I ask, where have you been all this time?"

From the front seat, Casey grunted. Evidently, he had been listening. Mrs. B looked at him and then at Carina, who had turned toward them.

"Long story, Morgan. Let's just say, for now, I was...detained. I'll tell the rest when I tell it to Ellie. I don't want to tell the story more times than are absolutely necessary."

"Do you know where Mr. B is?" Morgan asked, hopefulness in his voice.

Mrs. B looked out her window. "No, Morgan. I haven't seen him, not in person, for a very long time."

"Oh. Well. Hang in there where Ellie's concerned, Mrs. B, she can be hard but she's soft underneath. She just needs time - and an explanation, even if she denies she needs it. Besides you two never got to live through the '_I hate you, Mom!'_ years that mothers and daughters are entitled to, right?"

Mrs. B's eyes got bluer, sadder. "I don't know, Morgan. Maybe Ellie's been living those years all along, all by herself."

Casey wheeled the car into the hotel parking lot. "Okay, we're here. I'll get us checked in. Stay in the car."

Casey climbed out. The three still in the car watched him go. Morgan looked at Carina. "Ex-military, right?"

She nodded. "Still a soldier in lots of ways. Desperately wants to be a man of honor."

"He sort of terrifies me," Morgan reported.

"Me too," Carina returned, "but not for the same reason, I hope."

* * *

Casey came out to the cars with key cards in his hand. He leaned down to look in Sarah's window. "So, three rooms, 'suites', the clerk said. I checked one. Nice. How do we divvy up?"

"Why don't you and Morgan take a room, Frost and Ellie and I will take one, Zondra and Carina can have the other?"

Casey hesitated then nodded and handed Sarah key cards.

As he turned away, he heard Ellie ask Sarah: "Who the hell is _Frost?"_

* * *

After everyone had a chance to freshen up, the entire group gathered in Casey and Morgan's room. There was still no word from Brown, at least no possible location for Chuck, but Brown had texted to say that he was still working as fast as possible.

Sarah got everyone's attention.

It was not hard to do, the room was quiet brooding, the group still uneasy. Ellie and Mary were as far apart as Ellie could manage. Zondra had pulled up an armchair and seated herself directly in front of Sarah. Morgan pulled up a chair beside Zondra. Casey and Carina were seated on the small couch in the room.

"So," Sarah started, unsure where or how to begin, really, "we need to tell each other our stories, get on the same page. Since it seems like the story centers on Chuck and the Intersect, let me start there. Jump in as necessary, but not everybody at once. And let's keep the personal stuff out of it. Brown could contact us at any time and I don't want anyone operating blind. We have to find Chuck. He's...important." Sarah looked around. Everyone was listening to her. "On Chuck's birthday, Bryce Larkin sent the Intersect to Chuck via email. Bryce was killed when doing it."

Zondra raised her hand. Sarah frowned. "Zondra?"

"Bryce Larkin is alive."

Sarah shot a look at Frost; Frost sat forward but shrugged in response to Sarah's look.

"Are you sure?"

"Didn't Brown tell you? I rescued Ellie and Morgan from the safehouse - Fulcrum's - that Bryce and his partner, Jill Roberts took them to, imprisoned them in."

"What? Why didn't you tell me this on the phone, Ellie?" Sarah turned to Ellie.

"Zondra figured it would be better if you didn't know she was coming, and I couldn't figure out how to explain what happened without mentioning her."

"So where is Bryce now?" Sarah's tone became slightly desperate as she thought of Bryce out there, and Chuck out there too. And Jill. Sarah thought of the pictures on Chuck's phone, in the password protected file. She made herself calm down.

"So, Bryce is alive. And Jill Roberts is with him. And they are Fulcrum. This is the Monday to end all Mondays."

Frost spoke without raising her hand. "Um, since Bryce is alive, I need to mention something: Bryce is one of the leaders of Fulcrum, maybe the leader of Fulcrum; I'm not sure. At any rate, he was the one who killed Alexei Volkoff."

The room became loud with quiet.

Morgan muttered to himself. "I'm lost. Larkin was dead and now he's alive. I never got the first memo. I would have enjoyed it, even if it turned out false eventually."

Ellie's face grew thoughtful, then puzzled. Sarah saw it and felt immediate dread. "Wait, Sarah, I know you knew Carina and Zondra from before, that you worked together. How did you know Larkin?"

Frost intercepted the question, answered. "They were partners for a time."

Ellie wheeled around in her chair, acknowledging her mother for the first time, simmering with fury. "I can't believe you are a goddamn spy, always were a goddamn spy. It explains why you were never my mother. That was just your..._your cover._..wasn't it?"

Sarah closed her eyes. When Ellie had asked about Frost, Sarah felt compelled to tell Ellie about her mother's work, but not much more than name, rank and serial number. The rest was Frost's to tell her daughter. Or not. "And…" Ellie's voice began to get louder.

Sarah interrupted. "Ellie, I know this is a lot, for all of us, but for you and Mary especially. Still, not right now, not here, _please_.

"Mary is right; Bryce and I were partners."

Sarah saw Ellie's lips compress into a thin line. She tried to ignore it. "He disappeared; he was suspected of going rogue. No one was sure whether he was and then everyone thought he was dead. But as we've established, he's not dead, and he is rogue. He was a double-agent, maybe _the _double-agent. Who knows for how long?"

"I'm pretty sure he was one from the first day. He was Fulcrum when he became CIA." Frost volunteered, turning away in relief from her daughter's outraged expression. "Some of the things he told me when I was his prisoner implied that he was recruited by Fulcrum around the time he started at Stanford."

"Whoa, whoa. Bryce Larkin was a spy even before Chuck knew him?"

"Yes," Frost said.

"No big surprise. He's been an asshole since the day he was born," Casey grumbled. "I'd like to shoot the smug bastard."

Frost raised an eyebrow at Sarah then looked at Casey, "The queue starts behind _me_."

Ellie saw Frost's interaction with Sarah. Ellie contracted her brow as she looked at Sarah, then she turned the same expression on her mother. _Damn it, _Sarah thought.

Casey grunted. "Look, Larkin's alive. He's bad. _Yadda, yadda_. I want to know about Volkoff. I always wondered where he disappeared to"

Frost glanced from Casey to Sarah to Ellie. "I was in Moscow with Volkoff. Volkoff had elevated Bryce to a high position in his organization. At the time, I knew little about Larkin. But one day, Alexei took me out shooting - on the grounds. We were doing target practice when a shot rang out that neither of us fired. When I turned to look, Alexei was dead on the ground. A moment later, Larkin appeared, with a rifle pointed at me, and told me I was his prisoner. It was a _coup_, in both senses of the term. Bryce had taken over soon after Alexei and I left, shooting all the men who he knew were loyal to Volkoff. By the time he terminated Alexei, Alexei was already finished. Give Larkin credit. He is a very dangerous man, a very convincing liar. Maybe he's so good at it because, at the end of the day, there is no fact of the matter about him, who or what he is, other than his need and ambition.

She turned to Casey. "And as for Volkoff, he's in the frozen ground somewhere outside of Moscow."

Ellie was staring at her mother, her mouth hanging open. Morgan was doing the same. Sarah heard a peep from Morgan. "_Mrs. B?_"

Sarah tried to get the discussion back on track. "Look, we can sort out the history later. Right now, we need to talk about Chuck and the Intersect.

"Everyone knows now that Chuck downloaded the program Bryce sent him - as Bryce intended - into himself. Chuck is the Intersect. And I believe, Mary believes, that it is interfering with Chuck's mind, interrupting his thoughts, even preventing and guiding certain actions. Fulcrum and Bryce...and Jill...are the external threat but the worst one is the internal one, the Intersect itself. It is doing physiological harm to him. He's managed to stall some of that because he had a device designed by his dad, the governor."

Frost's head, down, snapped up. So did Ellie's "You never said…" they said in tandem, then looked at each other.

Sarah nodded. "I know. I forgot. So much is going on, has gone on. That's why we need to do this."

Morgan, looking more lost than ever, raised his hand and spoke as he did so, leaving his hand up the entire time. "So, Mr. B is some kind of mad scientist, like Doctor Octopus? Mr. B is the one who designed the Intersect?"

Ellie: "Dad. Dad is responsible for this. Jesus Christ, my entire life has been one long illusion. My mom, a spy. My dad, a mad scientist. I admit the last is less of a shock…" Ellie looked at Frost. "Mom, tell me what is going on. Tell me about the Intersect. I have to know if I am going to help Chuck."

Frost gulped back emotion and told Ellie what she told Sarah and Casey and Carina in the car earlier in the day about the history and nature of the Intersect. She omitted the personal side of that history. Ellie listened to her mother, Sarah noticed, with a new expression. She was not the wounded and outraged daughter, she was the fascinated doctor, the concerned sister. Every else listened too, even Casey and Carina, who had heard a version of it earlier. When Frost finished, Zondra whistled. "Wow…someone put life in a blender with the Syfy channel. This is all true?"

Everyone else in the room except Morgan nodded. Morgan, his lost look gone, was white as a sheet. "Chuck's not gonna die, is he?"

"No," Sarah answered in a steely tone. "No."

Zondra put her arm around Morgan.

Sarah sighed. "Okay, let me tell you about the last couple of days, what happened before Chuck disappeared." She narrated the events quickly, in a detached voice that gave the lie to her actual feelings, churning and whelming inside her. Ellie told the story of her confrontation with Bryce and Jill. When she finished, Sarah summed up.

When Sarah finished, she could see questions Ellie and Morgan's faces, but they did not ask. Sarah told them all to go to their rooms and get some sleep. Carina helped break up the party. Sarah knew she would not sleep - despite how bone-weary she was. The thought of sleeping without Chuck broke her heart.

* * *

Zondra was sitting in her room, 216.

Carina had gone into the bathroom to shower. They had spent a few minutes catching up, and then talking about Sarah and Chuck, about the change in Sarah. They had both shaken their heads over it, both shocked, neither completely surprised.

Carina said nothing about the CATs stuff, just as she had said nothing about it at the time. Carina had seemed convinced by the lie detector results, and she had seemed distressed by Sarah's inability to be convinced by them. At any rate, that did not seem to be an issue between them, and that relieved Zondra. Sarah was enough of a problem. Eventually, they were going to have to talk, face their past. The truth was, Zondra both dreaded and wanted that talk. Maybe the new Sarah would be more...reasonable. And there were things Zondra wanted to talk to her about. Seeing Sarah called up Zondra's old frustration and hurt, but it also reminded Zondra of how much she missed Sarah. They had been close - at least as close as anyone could be with Sarah.

Zondra's thoughts wandered down the hallway to 212, the room that Morgan was in with Casey. Zondra knew that this had been a hard, confusing day for Morgan, and she had been impressed with his attempts to comfort Ellie and Frost. The more she thought about his day, the more she wanted to see him.

The shower was still running. Zondra gathered her few things and the key card and walked down the hallway, past 214, Sarah's room with Mary and Ellie (Zondra cringed at the thought of sharing a room with the mother and daughter), to 212. She knocked.

Casey answered the door. "Hey, what's up?" His voice sounded slightly alarmed.

"Oh, there's no problem. Well, there's one problem. Carina seems to prefer the thought of you as a roommate to me. She suggested that you and I switch rooms."

Casey's eyes betrayed the pleasure he felt. "Oh, is that okay with you?"

Zondra nodded. "No problem. I can handle co-ed."

Casey grunted. He turned, leaving the door open. Zondra could hear the shower running in the bathroom.

"Morgan's showering," Casey said, as he quickly gathered his things. Zondra noticed that although he was fully dressed, he had his shoes off. He was wearing polka dot socks. His hands full, he nodded again at Zondra. "I'm off." He handed her his key card. She handed him hers.

Zondra closed the door behind him. "A not-so-little gift for you, Carina," she whispered to herself, grinning.

She sat down on the bed and kicked her own shoes off, then pulled off her socks. She leaned back until she was flat on the bed, her bare feet hanging an inch or so off the floor. She was swinging her feet, relaxing and relaxed, when Morgan walked in. Zondra had lost track of the sound of the shower, had not heard it go off or had not paid attention to its going off.

Morgan was wrapped in a towel. He came into the room and froze when he saw Zondra barefoot on the bed. He put his arms criss-cross around himself, covering his chest, staring at her.

"Hey, Morgan. Casey and I traded rooms. Hope that's okay." She could tell Morgan was trying hard both to cover himself and to keep from staring at her.

"But, I'm not wearing any clothes. And you aren't wearing any shoes."

"Both true," Zondra said as she slid herself up onto the bed, making room for Morgan. She wheezed a little as she did, her soreness worsened by the flight and stress of the day. "But as long as you promise not to open that towel, I promise to leave my shoes off."

Morgan looked at her, and she could tell he was trying to figure out what she meant. She knew she was confusing him and had been for a while. It was likely to continue.

Zondra yawned. "I've got to get some sleep. G'night, Morgan." She closed her eyes. She could hear Morgan muttering softly to himself, something about her feet, but it was too soft for her to hear. He got in bed beside her. She sighed and smiled and slept.

* * *

Sarah and Frost and Ellie entered 214 together, silently. Frost went and sat down quietly in an armchair, putting her head down, almost as if she were trying to shrink from Ellie's gaze, to hide. Ellie looked at her mother without expression.

"I'm going to shower," Sarah said, stepping into the bathroom with her things. She thought she would give them a chance to talk - or at least give herself a break from Ellie's icy anger and Frost's icy misery.

Inside the bathroom, Sarah let her shoulders slump. Tears rose to her eyes. She undressed quickly and turned on the water. When the shower was warm, she got in and let her tears come unchecked, her warm salt water mixing with the shower water. She stood like that for a long time before she grabbed some hotel shampoo and began to wash her hair.

When she finished showering, she dressed. She had only the clothes she had worn, but at least she had bought some extra underwear at _Tractor Supply. _ Feeling a little more in control, she walked back into the room. Mary was still there, in the same position, but Ellie was gone.

"There's a rooftop. She couldn't stand to be here with me alone. She went upstairs."

Sarah nodded. She slipped on her boots and left the room. She took the elevator up to the rooftop. When she stepped outside, she regretted not having put on her chore coat, regretted her still-damp hair. It was chilly. Ellie was standing near the railing, looking out at the city's lights. No one else was nearby, although there was a couple cuddling on the opposite side of the rooftop.

Ellie looked up as Sarah approached. Ellie gave her a sad smile: "Strange to think about talking to you next to the fountain and now seeing you here, like this, huh?"

Sarah nodded. "I'm sorry...about the lies...and about...being in your apartment."

"Oh, right, the morning with the mask. Wait, were you in the apartment all night?"

Sarah nodded again, twisting her lips to the side.

"Did you sleep there?"

"I fell asleep in Chuck's bed," Sarah admitted.

Ellie chuckled. "So you slept with him even sooner than I thought."

"He wasn't there, Ellie."

"Oh, I know. But it was his bed that Goldilocks found _just right_, wasn't it? I doubt Agent Walker had made it a habit of sleeping in her target's empty beds."

Sarah shook her head. "Not Agent Walker, Ellie. _Sarah_. I haven't thought about that story since I was a little girl. But I kinda like that way of thinking about it."

"Sarah, I'm...I'm sorry about that blunt-as-hell question in the car. I haven't been having the best day."

"Me either. It's okay. It's none of your business, I guess, except that he is your brother and he is my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Ellie's grinning repeat of the word had music to it in Sarah's ears.

"Yes, boyfriend. My first, I guess."

Ellie's grin shrank. "You mean, after Bryce Larkin?"

Sarah sighed. "I thought you'd figured that out. I was with Bryce for a short while. We were more than partners, yes, but I was never with-with him, Ellie, not really. I certainly never loved him, although for a little while I thought I could. He didn't care about me, Ellie, it turns out it was all a set-up."

Ellie was thoughtful. "Well, you're the second person I care about that Larkin has screwed over. Lord, I hated that fucking smiler the minute I met him at Stanford. Hard to believe he is still with Jill Roberts - in whatever twisted way they could be together. I guess he's Narcissus and she's his pool, maybe. I never liked her either, though. They deserve each other."

Sarah turned to face Ellie. They had both been looking at the city as they talked. "Ellie, about that _Enforcer _stuff…"

"Morgan's question, when Zondra told us, was basically: 'Do you mean Sarah Walker kills people for a living?'" Ellie finished and waited.

"It's a long story, Ellie. I can't deny what I have done. I was a CIA assassin for...years. I have...done what that...implies."

"'Was', Sarah? Past tense?"

"Yes, Ellie, past tense. I left the Company and that life...when I slept with your brother."

Ellie's thoughtfulness returned. "Did Chuck know who you were before that happened?"

"Yes," Sarah said, nodding just a little, "the Intersect...he had a flash - you know?"

"I have the basic idea, a momentary burst, an access of information."

"Right. He flashed on me when I came to the Buy More. He ran from me."

"Morgan told me that part of the story, but I understand it better now. Anyway, Chuck knew then, he knew what...you'd done, what...you'd been?"

"Yes. He knew he was my mission, my target, Ellie, and he knew all that about my past." Sarah reached into her pants pocket and took out a folded piece of paper, the note Chuck left in the Tarzana house. She unfolded it very carefully - it was her treasure - and handed it to Ellie.

Ellie took it and read it. "Ha! 'Very pretty.' God, my brother. He has no idea how devastatingly, naively charming he can be!"

"No," Sarah agreed, smiling and exhaling, "he really doesn't."

"Here's the thing, Sarah. My brother is, in general, a good judge of character. The best I know, actually. I know his record is blotted with Larkin and Roberts, but I think I'll give him a pass, there. He was manipulated by Larkin - maybe by Roberts too. I always thought Roberts was more Bryce's choice for Chuck than Chuck's for himself. Besides, they are liars."

Sarah shut her eyes at the term. Ellie continued, "I know you can lie, Sarah, and have lied to me, but if Chuck...chose you, knowing what he knows, knowing all he knows, then I am going to trust him. I can't say that I understand how you could have lived the life you have lived, and maybe one day when this is all done we can talk about that...maybe it would help me understand my mom...but I believe in my brother's heart, and you are clearly his heart's choice. You realize that if Chuck slept with you...well, you realize what that meant to him, don't you?"

"I do, Ellie. I do. And it meant the same to me."

Before Sarah had quite finished, Ellie was hugging her, squeezing her like a brunette python. When it ended, Ellie stepped back. "Okay, I think I am ready to face her. Mom."

Sarah put her hand on Ellie's arm. "I don't know the whole story, but I can tell you, Ellie. Your mom _has_ suffered. She is suffering. Her life itself has been a form of suffering. I don't claim that rights the scales - but do scales have any place in _family_? I don't pretend to know much about families, but…love and justice, they aren't the same."

"Thanks, Sarah. I'll try to keep that in mind. We'll find Chuck, Sarah, we'll fix him." Ellie headed downstairs.

Sarah wrapped her arms around herself and turned back toward the city. "Where are you, Chuck? You are my heart's choice too." Sarah smirked at herself. "The heart's choice of the heartless woman. Please, please be safe."

* * *

Chuck's mind whirled, twirled, dove and climbed. Pictures, documents, data, endless data, a madcap moment of near omniscience, impotent. Fulcrum. The Intersect. Fulcrum. The Intersect. Orion.

Chuck's brain felt like it was pulsing, grey matter expanding and contracting.

The larger pattern was there, it had always been there, but in the background, less salient than the subpatterns. But it was moving forward, clearer. Chuck knew where he had to go.

The pain of the flash had not been as intense as before. The flash had been...smoother, less disjoint. Chuck realized he had fallen out of Fleming's chair, onto the floor, onto his back. He had his eyes squeezed shut. He opened them to light. The overhead light in the office was on. And then Chuck saw her. Jill Roberts. She was standing over him, gazing down at him. _Jill?_

Beside her appeared Bryce Larkin, smiling down. "Well, well, look who we found, Jill. If it isn't _the Intersect_. I think it's finally time, don't you?"

_Bryce? Bryce Larkin, asshole?_

They continued to stare down at him, Bryce smiling, Jill just...gazing, but nodding in response to Bryce's question.

Chuck tried to smile but he was not sure he succeeded. He managed to speak. "Hey, guys, been a while, but I'm not complaining. At least you're both dressed this time."

Bryce pointed a gun at Chuck, and, still smiling, tightened his finger on the trigger.

* * *

A/N: Not as much of Chuck here as I planned. Other scenes needed to be handled. But lots in the next chapter.

Hey, how about a review? It needn't be much, but from where I sit, silence is hard to tell from indifference. Responses really do energize writers, so if you like something, the best way to keep it updating and get it completed is to respond. (And don't contribute to the tragedy of the commons, expecting that others will respond and so you won't have to.)

Chapter Theme: Aimee Mann, _Stuck in the Past. _(There's also a nod above to Mann's terrific album, _ #%&*! Smilers. _Been thinking of that title in connection with Bryce since the story began.)


	28. Chapter 26: The Razor's Edge

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Prepare yourselves, folks. Deep breaths. No joke.

* * *

_Sarah put her hand on Ellie's arm. "I don't know the whole story, but I can tell you, Ellie. Your mom has suffered. She is suffering. Her life itself has been a form of suffering. I don't claim that rights the scales - but do scales have any place in family? I don't pretend to know much about families, but…love and justice, they aren't the same."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

**The Razor's Edge**

* * *

Very late Monday night

* * *

Ellie took the stairs. She was in no hurry to face her mother but pretending she did not exist was not a working plan - at least it had not been working so far. Ellie felt betrayed, every inch of her, and every minute of her life since her mom left them, was ink-stained with betrayal. She had spent almost every night for scrying her bedroom ceiling, terrified for herself, terrified for Chuck, terrified for her father. _Terrified_.

When her mom vanished, the rotation axis of the family wobbled, and, like a top no longer spinning fast enough to keep itself upright, the family itself wobbled, eventually crashing, particularly her dad: He paced. He stared out the window. He opened the door at every sound from the street, craning his head left and right, expecting Mary. She was never there; she never returned.

Her dad's despondency filled the house, a miasma of despair, choking the three of them. Then her dad vanished too, gone to find her mom, or so Ellie believed. And the family toppled into her, onto her - Ellie became father and mother and sister to her brother, an impossible confluence of roles, especially for a girl little more than a child herself

She had cursed her mother on nights after that, when the terror stayed but tears would no longer come. Cursed her and cursed her. Now her mother was here, alive, older - although not frail and still attractive. Hollowed out, thinned out, but her mother. Ellie stopped before 214 and took a deep breath.

She inserted her key card. The room was dark, but a light was on in the bathroom. The bathroom door was open, and the shower was running. Ellie padded toward the door and stopped.

Her mother was standing next to the shower, one hand extended into it, testing the temperature of the water. She was wearing only a pair of old panties, torn, ragged, holey. Ellie's eyes fell on her mother's back.

Her back was a litany of scars, a testament to pain, old and new. Some of the scars were long, running several inches down her back, others were small, only an inch or less long. Many were angry, red, the skin puffy. They had healed, to the extent that they had, without the benefit of stitches or of medication. Ellie could not breathe; she could not imagine the pain of it. It was as if her mother had been flogged or flayed without mercy, forsaken. _My God, my God_. Ellie kept repeating the words to herself.

The doctor and the daughter in Ellie became one as tears poured down her cheeks. _So much pain_. Without thinking, she walked through the door, drawn to the pain, the record of the pain The shower masked the sound of Ellie's movement. She reached her mother and reached out to her, touched her.

Frost jerked, looked over her shoulder, and saw Ellie, realized what Ellie was seeing. She dropped her head as a sudden deep sob wracked her. Ellie delicately traced her index finger along the angriest, the most recent of the scars. It must have been deep and wide. It must have taken days, weeks to heal, untended. Ellie began to weep, to weep for the scars, to weep for herself, to weep for Chuck, to weep for her father, and to weep for her mother. She rested her forehead softly against her mother's shoulder and her tears fell down on the scars, running along the path of her finger and down her mother's back.

Her mother sobbed uncontrollably, almost to the point of being unable to take a breath. Finally, she brought the sobs under control. Ellie could feel her mother's muscles tense, feel her impose her will on herself, iron.

"I'm sorry, Ellie. No one was supposed to see…"

"Mom?"

"It doesn't matter. It's done. Healed. I wish I could explain all this to you, the years...But all I can do is recite the events; I can't make my decisions make sense, not even to me. I have rehearsed them all in the dark, in hours and hours of darkness, and I still don't know what was wrong with me, why I made the choices I made."

Ellie stepped back and ran her finger along another long scar, still damp from Ellie's tears. "So much pain, Mom, so goddamn much. I can't stand it." Her mother, still facing away, stood straight. She took a towel from the handle of the sliding door of the shower and held it in front of herself. Turning around, she looked into her daughter's eyes.

"I know you are scarred too, Ellie, on the inside. And I know who gave you those scars." She reached out and touched Ellie's face with the backs of her fingers, the softest brush, and Ellie recalled the gesture, often performed just as her mom left Ellie's bedroom at night, when Ellie was snug and comfortable and safe and her mother had said goodnight. A reminder of love.

And suddenly it was all too much, and Ellie turned and ran from the bathroom, slamming the door. She stood gasping in the darkness.

* * *

Sarah was cold. She was not sure she could sleep, but she wanted to lay down, cover herself, warm up. Worrying about Chuck, she stood too long on the rooftop. She wondered if both Ellie and Frost would still be alive in the room.

Thinking of Frost made her think of herself. _If I find Chuck, if we get free of all this, what do I want? _Budapest came before her mind. _I want a quiet life somewhere, with Chuck, my husband, and with a family of our own. _She stopped on the staircase, halfway down to her floor, and put her hand over her mouth. She had never said that to herself before. It was too much. It was too soon. She and Chuck had only been together a handful of days, they might never get free of all this. And even if she and Chuck got married, even if they had a family, how could Sarah know that she would not reprise Frost's sad decisions? _How can you predict the future? But I can now _know _what I hope for from the future...even if I may never have it._

She forced herself down the steps, into the hallway, and to door 214. She opened it hesitantly. The room was dark but there was light coming from beneath the bathroom door. Sarah stepped in and clicked on a lamp. She expected Ellie to be in bed, but Ellie was seated, back against the wall, in a corner of the room. Ellie had obviously been crying. She tried to smile at Sarah but it did not work. Sarah rushed to her and knelt in front of her, taking Ellie's hands and rubbing them.

She had just started when the bathroom opened and Frost emerged, clicking off the bathroom light. She had put on one of the robes provided by the hotel. Ellie looked up and Sarah turned her head. Frost looked at the two of them. Ellie let go of Sarah's hands and pushed herself up against the wall. Sarah stood too.

"Show her, Mom...please."

Frost's eyes flared with anger for a second, then she checked herself. She slowly rotated and allowed the robe to fall off her shoulders, bunching at her waist. In the lamplight, her back was a nightmarish relief map.

Sarah had endured torture two times during missions. She had a few scars of her own. Luckily, both times she had been able to escape, free herself before the ordeal had gone on long enough to scar her internally as well as externally. So, she had a glass, darkling, into what Frost must have endured. She sucked in her breath, overwhelmed by it.

"Oh, Mary."

Frost pulled her robe back up, covering her pain.

Ellie, staring at her mother's covered back as if she could still see the scars, uttered one word, a question. "How?"

Frost turned to face them. She bit her lower lip, her gaze straying around the room as if she was looking for a place to hide. Then, setting her shoulders, she started. She told the story of leaving her family, of Stephen's obsessive chase. She glossed over the details of Costa Brava, but the point of what happened there was clear.

She then talked of living as Volkoff's imprisoned second-in-command, of his madness, his dark moments, when the fact that she loved another man caused him to cut her - just a little, at first, but slowly more and more, more deeply, more savagely. Then, haltingly, she talked of becoming Bryce's prisoner. How he discovered the scars and guessed at the origin, although Frost would not explain them. She talked on, telling them how Bryce had demanded to know all she knew about Orion, about Stephen, and how Bryce had started cutting her too, because he could see her fear of it, her horror, and it made her talk.

She talked of struggling to stay physically fit and psychologically whole, driven by the hope that one day she would kill Bryce Larkin. But then he began to add to her scars, showing her pictures of Chuck and Ellie, candids, taken from up close, and promising her that they would both die, die horribly, if she escaped. And so her days went on. Bryce was not in Outlook often, but when he was…

And if he was not asking her for things, he was...telling her things, often telling her as he cut her.

"That...that..._bastard_," Ellie finally breathed out between clenched teeth. She wheeled to look at Sarah. "And you were with him."

Sarah had no response. She had come to see that there was a callousness in Bryce, and not one wholly explained by being a spy, but she had no notion of what darkness might be hiding behind the emotional sclerosis.

But before Sarah tried to explain, Frost intervened. "Ellie, _think_. You knew him. Did you think him capable of this?"

Ellie's expression shifted. "No, I thought he was a dick - I never thought he was...a monster."

Frost nodded. "But don't make a mistake, Ellie, Sarah, he's not insane. He's a sad, sadistic bastard with an ego too big for the sky, but he's coldly rational, prudent even, in one sense of the term. He's not crazy, or not much.

"I don't know what he is up to - I could never put it together and I had a long time to try - but he's been playing the long game of long games, waiting for something. For Chuck, I think. But I don't know why."

Frost turned from them. "Please don't mention my...scars to anyone. They are mine to bear."

"Mom…" Ellie began, but she seemed not to know how to go on, or if she wanted to go on.

Frost climbed into bed, keeping her face away from Sarah and Ellie, her back to them.

Sarah looked at Ellie and mouthed, "I'm sorry."

Ellie nodded and mouthed, "Thanks."

They went to bed. Sarah was the last and she turned off the lamp.

* * *

Tuesday morning

* * *

Sunlight, clear and white, came bright through the window.

Morgan felt bare feet against his bare feet. It took him a moment to be sure he was awake, not dreaming. He slowly, slowly, turned his head. Zondra, her dark hair mussed, was asleep beside him, one of her hands, he now realized, resting on his chest.

_I slept with Batgirl. Barefoot Batgirl. Well, not slept-slept with her, but still…_

He grinned wide in the sunlight and gazed at her beautiful face.

* * *

Carina had made coffee with the room's toy coffeemaker. She wondered why they didn't also provide an Easy Bake Oven instead of a microwave.

She sipped at the coffee as she looked down on sleeping Casey. He had come to the room last night. Zondra had told him that Carina wanted him. And while that was, in one way, a lie - Carina had said nothing - in another way it was the truth. She did want him. Stranger, she was beginning to feel like she needed him. She realized she had stopped scoring the sex in her head, like a judge at a gymnastic's event, and had simply given herself over to him. He had done the same, given himself over to her.

She sipped again. This was all virgin territory.

Ha! _Virgin. _

* * *

Chuck regained consciousness as something wet and soft and...cold...pressed against his face.

He jimmied his eyes open a slit and saw Jill. She was washing his face with a washcloth. She had not noticed that he was conscious. Her eyes were...sad, angry, resigned.

"Jill?"

She jumped. "Chuck? You're...awake?" After 'Chuck', her voice became a whisper.

He nodded. "Water?"

She had a bottle nearby and put it to his lips. That is when he realized his arms were chained. He looked back. He was chained to a wall, as his mother, as Mary, had been in Outlook. But he was not in Outlook. He had no notion of where the hell he was, although _hell _seemed a distressingly likely guess. _Sarah! _

He let Jill give him a drink. When he finished, he caught her eyes. "Where am I?"

Jill's expression closed. "Are you okay, Chuck? You were on the floor when we found you. You seemed to be in pain. How much does the Intersect hurt? Has it gotten worse?"

"Hold it. _You_ know about the Intersect? You know that I have it?" Chuck bit his tongue too late.

Jill nodded. "Where is Sarah Walker?" Jill asked, a note of shrillness creeping into her tone.

"Where is Sarah Walker, indeed?" Bryce asked, coming into the room and shutting the heavy door behind him. Chuck heard it lock.

Bryce walked to them and looked at Chuck and then, quickly, glanced at Jill.

"I told you, Jill, they are not together. The very idea is absurd. She's chasing him too, still." He turned to give Jill a gloating look, then returned to Chuck. "Impressive, by the way, Chuck. She normally gets her target with minimal fuss" Back to Jill. "I made sure we have extra men here, just in case Walker finds us, somehow. -I bet our boy Chuck here has never even spoken with Walker. He'd run from a chance to talk to a woman like that."

Jill's face grew stormy. "Do you know where she is, Chuck? Is she still chasing you?"

Chuck had himself under control now. He just looked at Jill, frowning, and remained silent. Jill grew vexed. "Oh, Good Lord, Chuck. She's not on your side. A stone-cold killer. She'd kill you without batting an eye."

"The way you'd cheat on me without batting an eye, Jill?"

Jill's eyes flashed toward Bryce. Bryce was smiling. _Of course._ He seemed to be curious to hear Jill's answer.

"Let's not dredge that up, Chuck. It won't help anything. We have you and, well, what's going to happen is what's going to happen. Memory Lane is closed."

"For repairs, Jill, or closed for good?" Chuck was not entirely sure what he meant, but Jill flinched. He thought he saw a stab of regret in her eyes. _Odd. The last time I saw her, she was on all fours in front of Bryce. She didn't sound...regretful there, shouting out Bryce's name._

"The lady has spoken." Bryce's smile _smugged _\- Chuck knew that was not a verb but he watched it happen, he watched Bryce _smug_. Chuck gave his head a shake, trying to dispel the remaining cobwebs. He did not know whether how he felt was due to the flash, the tranquilizer, or both. He felt wretched. He felt alone. Mostly, he missed Sarah. _~Good riddance. ~Keep your mind clear. ~Alone is better. Alone sucks. _

"Give me some time with the Intersect, Jill." Bryce's words were a command. Jill obeyed. She knocked on the door and Chuck heard it unlock. She left and the door closed and locked again.

Bryce walked to a corner of the room and grabbed a small wooden stool. He carried it over to where Chuck was and set down, right in front of Chuck. He seated himself, then ran a hand through his hair, his blue eyes shining with excitement.

"I've waited a long time for this, Chuck. Pardon me if I take a minute to savor it. I've played the odds, held out, calculated - and I was right. I will be right. And right, Chuck, makes might - or something like that." Bryce grinned at himself.

"Monologue was never your meter, Bryce. Even at Stanford it rapidly degenerated into navel-gazing. I doubt there's another man on the planet as infatuated with his own navel as you are. Probably because it's a short-cut to your asshole."

Bryce smirked. "C'mon, Chuck. Cheap shots, now? Such talk doesn't become the Chief of the Nerd Herders, a professional nerd."

Chuck snapped his head up, glaring at Bryce. "What do you know about all that? We haven't seen each other in years."

"No, Chuck," Bryce said, sighing in mock-longsuffering, "_you _haven't seen _me _in years. I, on the other hand, have seen you often. Often."

"What are you talking about."

"Well, for one, Fulcrum has had the Buy More bugged since the day before you got hired. I've been...watching you work, watching Morgan not work. It's the job you were destined for, Chuck."

Chuck felt dizzy. "'Before'? You said, 'before'. Before I got hired."

Bryce nodded, chuckling to himself. "How do you think you got that job, Chuck. We planned it for you. The perfect place to hide you until it was time."

Chuck squinted. His vision was blurry, then clear. "Time?"

"Jesus, Chuck, you suck at conversation. It's a little like talking to Walker. One word questions as answers."

"Fuck you. Two words, you arrogant prick," Chuck growled out.

"I'll ignore that, although I have to say, you've gotten rather foul-mouthed since college."

"I'm better at calling them as I see them."

"Whatever, Chuck. Yes, time. I had to keep you on ice, so to speak, until it was time."

"On ice?"

"Two words again. Very good, Charles. Yes, time. Since you were in Fleming's office, you must have begun to put this all together. Given the newspaper in his office, I assume you now know that the President of MSU is Fulcrum. But I guess I should start at the beginning, not on the near end."

Bryce stood and started walking, rubbing his hands together. His spirits, and so his steps, seemed buoyant.

"Fulcrum recruited me shortly before Stanford - during that long summer between high school and college. They convinced me, well, what does ideology have to do with this moment, really? They convinced me to join. Gave me a crash course at a fake summer camp. My first handler was Professor Fleming."

"Huh? How?"

"Fleming came to Fulcrum; they did not come to him. You see, when Fleming was younger, he was a student in a class taught by your father at UCLA. He audited it, he was not enrolled as a student. He was a fanboy of your father, his work. But Fleming was..._hungry._ His own work - he already was doing his own work - was closely related to your father's. He found out where your father's lab was and he found a way in during off-hours. He started studying your father's work, discovered the Intersect, discovered how far along your father was. Much farther than what he was teaching in his classes suggested.

"The treasure-trove, for Fleming, was the discovery of your father's journal. It contained all his earliest ideas, at least in germ. But it contained something else, something that stuck in Fleming's mind and that has, in effect, shaped your life, Chuck."

Chuck was now caught up in the story, despite its teller and his smugness. "What do you mean?"

"Fleming copied it out word-for-word, Chuck. He told it to me many times. It obsessed him. He even wrote it out for me, just as it was in the journal." Bryce reached into one of his rear pockets and pulled out a folded sheet of old yellow legal paper.

_Chuck downloaded the Intersect by mistake. He thought it was a video game. I was terrified. I thought it would kill him. But it didn't. I always knew he was special. He survived it, apparently intact. Of course, it was an early version but still, I had been unwilling to try it on anyone, including myself. _

_Later, when he was asleep, I used my new copying equipment and copied the Intersect from his head. What I got was...different. He had changed the program, overwritten it somehow. I could not fathom the new code. I could add to it, but it was just there, some representation of my son irretrievably intertwined with the program itself. I now have two versions of the Intersect, the original, un-Chucked version, and the new Chucked version. The new version is the most promising. _

_Chuck _is _special. He is the future of the Intersect. He has the Intersect but does not know it. Who knows how he is changing it still?_

Bryce folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. "From that day on, Fleming was obsessed with discovering the new version, but he could not find it. He did not know where your father kept that research: he was not doing it at UCLA."

_The basement at the Tarzana house. That's where he was working. I had the Intersect already? How did I never realize it?_

"Fleming was able to produce a version of the other Intersect, the _un-Chucked_ version, to use your dad's technical term, but it was even more problematic than your father's un-Chucked version. He worked on it on his own as he finished college, then finished grad school, then got hired at Stanford."

Bryce sat back down on the stool. "Fleming ran out of new ideas, and he ran out of money after some years but he could not risk exposing the Intersect by researching it at Stanford. So he went to Fulcrum and offered it to them. They were, shall we say, pleased to get it, but it quickly became apparent that Fleming's version was, at best, a brilliant mistake.

"It killed a lot of good Fulcrum agents who volunteered to download it. The later version, the un-Chucked one Fulcrum eventually stole from your dad, killed a lot more, just in case you were wondering about all that _corn as high as an elephant's eye _back at the farm in Outlook. Fertilizer." Bryce's face hardened and he stared hard at Chuck. But then he tore his gaze away and continued.

"But Fleming was not willing to share that journal entry with anyone. No one knew that you were..._special_," Bryce made a face like he had bitten something bitter, "but he started keeping tabs on you. He was the one who arranged for your scholarship to Stanford. He made sure you ended up in his Freshman seminar and made sure he taught one that would interest you. He wanted to draw you out, to understand your..._specialness._"

Bryce paused and put his hand in his front pocket. He retrieved an old pocket knife. Chuck recognized it. It had been on Bryce's desk in their room at the frat, a present from Bryce's dad. Bryce always claimed to hate it, though it stayed on his desk.

Opening the knife, Bryce carefully fingered the blade, running his thumb lightly along the sharpened edge. Chuck watched closely, unsure of what was happening.

"Fleming took a chance. He found out I was coming to Stanford as a green Fulcrum agent. He figured he could control me. He took me into his confidence, told me about you. He began to study you. He made sure you and I became friends. I repeated our interactions, our conversations, to him, even taped many of them. He used Psychology department research to trick you into submitting to experiments, psychological examinations. He studied you like a computerized rat in a _Tron_ maze. He got to know all about you, your strengths," Bryce paused to make a scoffing sound, "and your weaknesses. My job was to suppress the former subtly and emphasize the latter. I enjoyed my work."

Bryce exhaled. "But Fleming could not create or find a version that he was willing to trick you into downloading. He knew that what he needed was the other version, the Chucked version. But he had been unable to replicate your dad's copying machine, and so he could not just take it from you. I wanted to put you in a hole until we could use you, but Fleming was afraid of damaging that _brain-mind_ of yours. He convinced me that the best strategy would be to use you against yourself. Make you your own jailer…"

"Imagine our frustration. What we most wanted was right there, _in your goddamn head,_ as out of reach as if it were on the moon. Fulcrum kept trying to capture Stephen, but they had no luck; he had become a ghost. No one could capture him."

Bryce paused and grinned. "Even Walker. I bet you had no idea that the woman hunting you hunted your father, hunted _Orion, the hunter_. I always got a kick out of the irony of that."

Chuck, careful to give nothing away, interjected. "Yeah, you and Alanis Morrissette. Neither of you knows what that word means."

Bryce gripped the knife and started to stand. Then he sat back down. "This is a long story, Chuck, and if you keep interrupting, it will never finish."

"That would be ironic, _don't cha think?_" Chuck asked, flashing a defiant grin.

Bryce apparently ignored him. "So, we needed a strategy. You and I were seniors and Fleming still had no version of the Intersect to download into you and no way of copying what was in your head. So we used Fleming's strategy. We needed a plan to keep you _put_, in reach, unlikely to make any discoveries about yourself or your..._specialness_. I had been working to undermine any sense of that you might develop. We needed to turn the Self-loathing Machine up to _eleven_. We did. We _broke_ you. Sent you back to mommy, to Ellie, with your _brain-mind_ between your legs - so to speak." Bryce was practically crowing, a rooster, a cock.

"To understand, we have to go back to when you met Jill. Your early Fleming psych tests revealed your continuing, debilitating terror of abandonment. I knew Jill because she was another Fulcrum recruit on campus. She and I were _together._"

"Shit!" Chuck barked, losing control for a second.

Bryce smiled and smiled. "Yes, and we were...a couple. Still are. Fleming and I used her to seduce you, to get you to fall in love with her. I orchestrated it all, Chuck. Because you, see, I quickly became the handler and Fleming the asset. I was a natural, a natural." He bowed even as he sat on the stool.

He straightened up. "Anyway, I orchestrated it all. Your meeting with Jill, your _first time_. I watched that as it happened, actually." Bryce slowed, stopped. He stopped smiling. He stood up with his knife and walked around Chuck, until he stood behind him, standing over the chains, slack on the ground, that attached Chuck to the wall.

"I watched the two of you _every time_, Chuck." Chuck felt Bryce's hand bury itself in the collar of his shirt, then Bryce ripped the flannel shirt in two, exposing Chuck's back. "I had to listen to that damned _Frightened Rabbit _album - _Midnight Organ Fight_ \- as often as poor Jill. Not really the best mood-setter, Chuck."

"And then I orchestrated the end. The cheating scandal. _That was good, wasn't it?_ I made sure you 'surprised' me with Jill," he leaned down to whisper in Chuck's ear, a smile returning to his tone, "_in flagrante delicto - in blazing offense_, Chuck, just in case you don't know that Latin tag. Fuck you and Alanis Morrissette - and _Jill,_ _don't cha think_. I wanted you to see her...un-Chucked."

Chuck felt the steel of Bryce's knife blade resting gently on the skin of his back.

"You know, Chuck," Bryce breathed out, "this feels...familiar."

* * *

A/N: To Be Continued.

We are in the final chapters of Book Two. And, yeah, I know, Bryce's story is frustratingly told - but he's waited a long time; he's enjoying himself; he's going to tell the story his way. Twist the knife.

If you're hoping for a quick update, drop me a review or PM.

Chapter Theme: Aztec Camera, _Knife_


	29. Chapter 27: Belly of the Man of Wicker

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_C'mon, folks. It's me. (To borrow a refrain from David Carner.) I've written almost a million and a half words on this site and folks still don't get it? Don't understand the vision that underlies these stories, _all _of them? C'mon... _

Ahem. - Anyway, I didn't want to leave you with that particular cliffhanger, so here's a short update. I promised my wife I will not write over the holiday - no philosophy, no fiction (although she told me I may write poems for her). So, nothing more until sometime next week. Enjoy the holiday if you are celebrating, the weekend otherwise. My best to all!

* * *

_Chuck felt the steel of Bryce's knife blade resting gently on the skin of his back.  
_"_You know, Chuck," Bryce breathed out, "this feels...familiar." _

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

**The Belly of the Man of Wicker**

* * *

Tuesday

* * *

Bryce waited.

Waited.

Chuck could feel the blade against his back. It had not broken the skin. He clamped his teeth together - and Chuck waited.

Waited.

His heart was pounding, he tasted bile, but his head had cleared. Evidently, his earlier fogginess and dizziness was the effect of the drug. _Probably not the optimal time to be clear-headed._ Chuck tried not to tense up - he had read somewhere that pain was worsened by being tense - and he seemed to succeed. He untensed. Chuck waited.

"Huh," Bryce said, registering disbelief, surprise, "you have changed. The Chuck I last talked to should be begging by now - or at least negotiating. Remember? The way you did that time with the nurse who was going to give you a flu shot?" Bryce chuckled and sounded like the Bryce Chuck remembered for a second. But then his voice changed: "What did you find in Outlook, Chuck? I'm not happy about what you did to Outlook." Chuck heard the knife snap shut. Bryce walked around and sat back down on the stool. Chuck noticed that he did so slowly, like he was in pain. "What did you find, Chuck?"

Chuck looked at Bryce. "Nothing, Bryce. Corn." Chuck grimaced at that memory now. "A barn. I think the barn exploded." He offered no more.

Bryce's face flushed, his voice was low. "You _think _it exploded? Do you know what was in there?"

Chuck shook his head. "Nope. Never made it inside."

Bryce shoved his knife in his pocket. He stared at Chuck as if he were trying to see inside Chuck's head, then looked away. The tension in the room clicked down a notch or two.

"You were going to cut me." It clicked back up a notch.

Bryce grinned, if an expression so pregnant with threat could be called 'a grin'. "No, I just needed to know something. And I know now." Bryce paused, taking himself in hand. "Fleming was right. That head of yours is too important to be risked unnecessarily, especially now, this close. I confess I know...something of such things. Fulcrum taught me well. - Don't make a face, Chuck. The CIA taught me well too. Double instruction for the double agent, double-dipped."

He paused to enjoy his phrase, then gave Chuck an annoyed shrug. "There are no 'good guys' and 'bad guys' in this shadow world, Chuck. Everyone's enshadowed. The only logic in this shadow world is that you must be willing to be viler than your competition. Is that a logic you could live _with_, live _in_, Chuck? Is that the new logic, the dark new logic, you would choose for yourself?"

Chuck shook his head again. Bryce went on in an intense, hatefully taunting tone. "I didn't think so. You aren't strong enough to do what needs doing. You were always weak - destined to be the side-kick, never the hero. The _Arthur_ to somebody's _Tick._ What Fleming called your strengths are really just weaknesses. How could _a large capacity to suffer _count as a strength? Screwed up Sunday-School logic. I take my logic from Port-Royal. -No? But I guess you didn't take that class with me, did you? There _are_ intellectual things I know that you don't, Chuck." Bryce clucked the 'k' smugly.

"What do you want with me, Bryce? I assume this ramble will end, maybe in my lifetime."

Bryce nodded, eyes narrowing. "It may end your lifetime, Chuck. We'll see. I guess I did get distracted, didn't I?" Bryce looked at the ceiling as if trying to remember where he had left off in his recitation of the past.

Chuck took a moment to inhale and exhale. He was surprised at how calm he felt. His whole life was turning out to be a lie - not just his screwed-up _Double-0_ parents, but Stanford, the Buy More, all of it. He was a puppet on a string. No, worse. He had strung himself up. He had been used against himself, both puppeteer and puppet - and string.

_~The man who hangs himself has a dupe for an executioner. Okay, that was dark._

Bryce and Fleming had acidified and weaponized his self-hatred, let him do their dirty work to himself. But Bryce did not know one thing that Chuck knew, _the _thing that Chuck knew: _Sarah Walker loves Chuck Bartowski_. _~No, she doesn't. Yes, she does. She does. No doubts. I am not listening to voices in my head that contradict my heart. _That fact changed everything, exchanged Chuck's old world for a new world. Sarah was a woman of myth and legend, of guns and knives; she was a woman of flesh and blood, of caresses and sighs. She was all of that - and she loved him. The past was past. The future mattered. Seeing Sarah again, holding her again. She was a future absolutely worth having, no matter what the past, her past, Chuck's past. _And besides, "The meaning of yesterday is never decided until tomorrow". - Where did I read that?_

Bryce resumed. "Well, maybe tale time is nearly over, Chuck. I've told you about the essentials." Bryce turned as the lock sounded in the door. It opened and Jill came in; her steps seemed forced, numbered. She had a file in her hands. As she gave it to Bryce, she leaned down and whispered in his ear. Chuck could not hear, but it took a minute and what she said did not make Bryce happy. Jill turned and started to leave, but Bryce stopped her. "No, Jill, stay. I need your help. Shut the door, though." She did and Chuck heard it lock. Bryce fanned himself with the file.

"Well, Chuck, this is it. Time to do what we've been waiting for. But just a bit more story, facts of record. Humor me. Here's the gist, Chuck. I was able to get to know your father, Orion, get him to trust me. Not completely, maybe but...enough. He was lonely. Lonely is my specialty. Perhaps my best work, getting to him. Perhaps - but I have done so much good work. - Of course, he was getting a little shaky upstairs at the end. That helped. He said things. Anyway, he thought I was CIA - just CIA. He even thought I was your friend. Thinking those things made him...loosen up a bit. I realized he had the Intersect. And then I realized it had to be the Chucked version. That was how he hid for so long. He didn't have to hide the program in some lockbox; it was locked away, hidden in his head. He just had to keep anyone from finding out that he had it or how to copy it. I'd have given a body part - not necessarily one of mine, but somebody's - to have found one of his copying machines."

Bryce looked wistful, then satisfied. "But one day he showed me a set of...slides, I guess. He said that they would hasten the integration of the Intersect into the mind of the host. Host - I guess that would be you, Chuck. Your dad thought I was part of the CIA's Intersect project, and I was, but I was really part of Fulcrum's Intersect project. So, he showed me the slides one night. He was depressed, drinking a little, whining about -" Bryce glanced at Chuck's eyes " -your mom. He forgot to put the slides away. I helped myself to them. He never missed them. Kinda funny, you had no idea where your dad was, and I was his drinking buddy.

"Then, not long ago, it became clear that he had made some kind of breakthrough. He was excited, distracted. Drinking again. He finally let me see the copying machine. When he was deep in his cups, when his back was turned, I checked it. It had a copy on it." Chuck could feel Bryce's remembered excitement. "It was too big to move. So, I left - and came back with a Fulcrum team. He must have suspected. He was ready. The place was booby trapped. I couldn't get the copy off the machine, so I emailed it to you. But doing so erased it from the machine, somehow. Getting it to you was always the plan, but I had intended you to be in my...control...when that happened You see, I figured it out, using what Fleming told me and what your dad let slip. _You are the future of the Intersect_, Chuck. The vessel. I threw myself over the copy machine when the place exploded, hoping..."

With that, Bryce opened the file, pulled a slide from it and held the slide up. Chuck looked at it and flashed. Chuck heard Jill gasp as his body tensed and writhed, he heard the chains rattle. He closed his eyes. Then he heard Bryce. "Hold his head up, Jill. The Intersect will force him to look." And his eyes opened on a new slide. And he flashed...It felt like someone was knocking on the door of his mind, knocking...And he flashed...Past Chuck met Present Chuck...Dad was present too...And he flashed…The Intersect swallowed him - or he swallowed it.

Blackness.

* * *

Sarah stepped out of 214, closed the door. The morning tension between Mary and Ellie was already fatiguing her. She took a breath. As she did, she saw Casey exit 216 at the same time as Zondra exited 212. Sarah did a double-take. Each was leaving the wrong room. Then she saw Carina behind Casey, and Morgan behind Zondra. Zondra smirked at Carina; Carina smirked back. Sarah shook her head.

Her phone buzzed. She looked at it. _Brown!_ She read the text. Security cameras on the MSU campus showed Chuck leaving the library. Brown had done some extra digging. An old professor of Chuck's and Bryce's, a man named Fleming, was now working at MSU. Too coincidental. Brown suggested starting with Fleming's office on campus and his house near campus.

Sarah opened 214. "Mary, Ellie, hurry! Brown just texted."

* * *

Bryce and Jill stood by the bedside. Chuck was on the bed, electrodes attached to his head in profusion, and a few to other parts of him too. He was entirely surrounded by computers, machines, devices. He seemed attached, connected to them all, them all to him. Networked over. Jill looked from Chuck to Bryce.

"Did it work?" She looked back at Chuck. "So much pain."

"Fleming was sure it would, as long as the version I sent Chuck was as developed as Stephen seemed to indicate. We had no choice. If we want a viable Intersect, if we want to be able to realize the future Fulcrum dreams of, we dream of, _this_ was the path. We had to run the risk of losing the Intersect if we were ever going to have it."

Jill looked away, blinking. That was not the risk that most concerned her, not close, but she could not let Bryce know that. She fought back her feelings. For five years, she had avoided seeing Chuck in person, even from a distance. She had seen Buy More footage of him, photographs. Heard audio. But she did not think her heart could stand seeing him in person. Binoculars would not have softened the blow. She had been right: seeing Chuck in person - she had not been ready, could not stand it. But no matter how broken she felt inside, she could not let Bryce see. Bryce would make her pay for feeling as she felt, as he had made her pay when he realized that her seduction of Chuck had worked - for her.

She had fallen in love with Chuck. But she had done it while seducing him for Bryce, under Bryce's instruction. She had made love to Chuck while Bryce monitored their coupling. She had tried to hide the genuineness of her reactions to Chuck, but eventually, Bryce saw. He saw that she was not faking it, that she meant the words she was supposed to merely be saying. A cruel joke. She meant what she was supposed to be faking with Chuck and Bryce figured it out. She had not meant what she was not supposed to be faking when Chuck discovered them together, but Chuck had not figured it out. _God, it is hard to even think those thoughts straight. The spy life is a prison of negations. _

Chuck twitched and her chest ached. _How can I still feel like this so long after? _Bryce stepped out and Jill allowed her face to soften. She tentatively touched Chuck's hand. She knew he could never forgive what she had done. That was why she had gone on with it. She would lose him either way, but at least going through with it let her live. She had no doubt Fulcrum would have killed her had she revealed herself to Chuck. Bryce would have killed her. She deserved Bryce - and she had him. She was serving out her punishment. And on his good days, Bryce was...bearable. He could be supernaturally charming, his smile like light from heaven. It was false but she made do, pretended, at least on the good days. Tried to make do.

She had gone on to do...other things. Fulcrum things. Other things she was not proud of, other things for which Chuck could never forgive her.

But she had tried to give Chuck a chance. She had hidden the final slide, the thirteenth, under her shirt before she entered Chuck's cell. She banked on Bryce being too absorbed to notice, to count as he used them. She had been right. She had slipped the final slide back in the file when Bryce handed the file back to her. After it was over.

She knew Bryce was now readying the copy machine. He had saved it when Orion's lab exploded, taking the punishment himself. By Bryce's stripes, the copying machine was spared. _Greater love hath no man…. Shit._

Jill had lied to Chuck earlier. Memory Lane was not closed, not for her. She hated herself for liking it all these years that Chuck was pining for her, but it was the one thing she had. A good man loved her, even if it was a love built out of falsities.

No, Chuck could never forgive her. She could never forgive herself. But she prayed she had given Chuck a chance.

* * *

Casey and Carina and Morgan and Zondra were in one car. They were headed to Fleming's house.

Sarah, Ellie, and Mary were in the other, headed to Fleming's office.

Sarah was grinding her teeth. _We__ have to find Chuck. We have to be in time_. She wanted him with her. She wanted to tell him she loved him. _I'm coming Chuck. I will always come for you._

* * *

Beckman put her head in her hands, her elbows on her desk. He had called, in person, untraceable. Bryce had called. He told her to recall Casey, end the mission. How had Bryce known?

The Intersect now belonged to Fulcrum. What could she do, given what Bryce knew? He had outsmarted, outfoxed, them all.

Although she was not one, she might as well be a Fulcrum agent, _goddamn it. _ A life of self-denial ruined by a few weeks of self-indulgence.

Why had she done it? How could she have believed _Bryce Larkin_ had feelings for her? Had _wanted_ her?

She had condemned herself in her own bed, pronounced her own sentence in pillow talk.

_Damn smiler_.

_Somebody, just shoot me!_

She had betrayed herself, her agency, and her country. And she was certainly old enough to have known better. At least Judas had thirty pieces of silver to show for his kisses. All she had were a few goddamn pictures on her phone.

_Cougar Failure - _she imagined the headlines.

She picked up the phone and called Casey.

* * *

Brown willed his way to Graham's office, sweater on, cane in hand. Tap. Tap. Tap.

_Taps. Fitting._

Graham was angry. That was obvious on the phone. This was it. Time for Brown to face the music - or to dance as well as a lame man could dance.

He opened the door. _Here we go, Dad. Part of the cure._

* * *

A/N: Until next time. Two chapters left in Book Two. Book Three will not be long - but there will be two epilogues.

Chapter Theme: Hours Eastly, _Shoot Me Dead. _

(By the way, I consider these theme songs just that, themes, and I have normally thematized them in one way or another in the chapter, sometimes borrowing lyrics, sometimes trying to recapture the mood of the song, sometimes using them to foreshadow or to recollect action. They are part of the content of the chapters, of the story. This particular Hours Eastly song not only has a relationship to the chapter but to the entire storyline. Lyrics available online. Give it a listen. It's a strong candidate for my favorite non-canon Charah Anthem.)


	30. Chapter 28: Fate, Rapping

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Back from rural Georgia. Hope everyone had a good Fourth or a good weekend.

Hoping to push through to the end in the next couple of weeks or so.

* * *

_Chuck took a moment to inhale and exhale. He was surprised at how calm he felt. His whole life was turning out to be a lie - not just his screwed-up Double-0 parents, but Stanford, the Buy More, all of it. He was a puppet on a string. No, worse. He had strung himself up. He had been used against himself, both puppeteer and puppet - and string. _

_And his eyes opened on a new slide. And he flashed...It felt like someone was knocking on the door of his mind, knocking...And he flashed...Past Chuck met Present Chuck...Dad was there too...And he flashed…The Intersect swallowed him - or he swallowed it.  
Blackness._

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

**Fate, Rapping**

* * *

Tuesday

* * *

Jill watched, her face set to blank, as Bryce wheeled the copying machine into the room. She stepped aside so he could position the machine's cart near Chuck's head. It looked distressingly like a prop from an early episode of _Dr. Who_ \- like someone took a massive battery charger, heavy, and wired it to a small black-and-white portable television set. Red wires ran from the 'charger' to a headpiece, almost a crown, of twisted red wire.

Thinking of _Dr. Who _made her think of Stanford, of 'dates' with Chuck, 'dates' that were real and unreal, predicated on her actual feelings and her lies. She had loved watching that show with Chuck, chatting about the episodes as they unfolded, laughing at Chuck's inevitable frustration with the nonsense of time travel. Bryce was a fake nerd, a nerd as part of his cover, and he hated the show, hated that Chuck loved it. Bryce hated all TV, really, except for the occasional Bond movie.

Bryce took the red-wire headpiece and pressed it down harshly on Chuck's head. Jill should have stopped Bryce. Or tried. But she had always been too weak openly and actively to oppose her will to his. He overtopped her; he was always too much. Her purloining of the 13th slide was the only act of out-and-out rebellion against Bryce that Jill had managed in all their years...together. She doubted she would have been able to do it unless she had believed him unlikely to notice.

Bryce fiddled with the 'charger' then flipped a switch. A high-pitched sound filled the room, emitted from the 'charger'. The black-and-white screen showed moving white lines.

"Lucky Fleming knew what to do with this," Bryce muttered aloud but not to her as he turned to watch Chuck. Jill closed her eyes. But then she opened them. It would not do for her to refuse to watch too. Bryce snuck a glance at her. Jill bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood. It happened quickly: Chuck's body arched. He slumped on the bed, his body still moving, ripples, twitches. Then he stilled, stopped. He was dead still.

Bryce nodded in satisfaction as he looked at the screen then at the 'charger'. He gave Jill a huge smile and a thumbs-up. He took the headpiece off of Chuck and looked at her. "Let's go. It seems to have worked."

Jill frowned. "What about...him?"

Chuck was still attached to the other machines in the room. He was alive but the machines showed his vitals slowing, sinking.

Bryce shrugged. "He's done too. It'll take a moment but this is basically the chicken body," he gestured to Chuck, "after the head has been cut off. He's been..._axed_. No need to stay to the end. We have what we need and we have a schedule. Believe it or not, even after all that's happened, our original plan is still a _go_. He, on the other hand, isn't."

"But I thought his dad used this machine on Chuck long ago, and on himself recently. Chuck didn't die - his dad didn't die. Not then, not from that, anyway."

"True," Bryce nodded, his eyes speculative, "but when he used the machine before, he targeted only the Intersect. Copied only it and what...had become part of it. I couldn't take the chance of missing anything, especially not after the slides. I have...all of it, so all of him. Copied. As I said to you before, we've pithed him. The slides did it, finished him. Or, to put it another way, they shut down the ghost in the machine, reduced the ghost to the machine. The machine will now just run down…ghostless." Bryce seemed to savor his turn of phrase. "_Yeah_," he added softly but intensely, '_ghost._"

Jill swallowed hard, turning away to mask her reaction. _Too late. Goodbye, Chuck. _Jill wanted to be sick right there on the floor. She wanted to cry. She forced a smile and followed Bryce as he pushed the copying machine from the room. Jill looked back for a second as she reached out, reached out to turn off the light.

* * *

As Sarah drove, Frost was beside her in the front seat. Ellie was in the rear. Sarah was fighting to control her fingers - she wanted to tap them against the steering wheel, anything to relieve her mounting desperation.

Frost had a gun on her lap - given to her from Casey's predictable amory in his car's trunk. Frost had gotten in the car and checked the gun quickly, efficiently, her gestures smooth and sure. Sarah had seen Ellie watching, frowning - a dismal stare. Sarah could tell that Frost could feel the stare; she seemed to be wilting under it.

Frost looked slightly ridiculous. The gun was in her lap but she was wearing an MSU sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, light blue with gold lettering, white tube socks and a pair of cheap white sneakers. Ellie had not been able to sleep and had left the room a little while after Sarah turned out the lights. Ellie found the clothes at a gas station/convenience mart near the hotel. She had also found an ointment for Frost.

Sarah had been so exhausted that she had not realized Ellie left. But she woke up to the two of them arguing. Ellie explained what she had done. Frost was sullen and unresponsive, her eyes sunk in hurt and hopelessness.

Ellie had made her mother let her apply the ointment. Frost's look at Sarah while it happened made it clear that Frost did not know who was administering the medicine: the doctor, the daughter or both, or neither. Ellie also tended to her mother's feet.

After the initial argument, Ellie had said nothing as she worked, except to thank Sarah when Frost mentioned that Sarah had cared for her burned feet earlier. Ellie worked the ointment into Frost scars and burns and re-wrapped Frost's feet. Frost then got up and got dressed, making no comment on the clothes.

The room had been thick with the odor of ointment and with tension - and that was when Sarah stepped into the hallway and got the text from Brown.

Ellie cleared her throat and spoke. "So, Sarah, Zondra tells me the two of you had...a falling out?"

Sarah kept her eyes on the road but, after a moment, she nodded.

"Huh. Well, maybe I should tell you the entire story of my meeting with her. Mine and Morgan's."

Sarah waited. Ellie went on. "She showed up in my hospital's parking deck. She had been sent to kill me."

"What?" Sarah and Frost both shouted the question, one perfectly overlapping word. The car jerked as Sarah jerked the wheel.

"Obviously, she didn't," Ellie added quickly, half-smirking, half-frowning. Zondra had her gun on me, she had me dead to rights, but she hesitated. I mentioned you and she hesitated even more. Then Morgan attacked her."

Frost's eyes widened. "Morgan Grimes attacked Zondra. And lived?"

Ellie chuckled, enjoying the disbelief on her mother's face, Sarah's face too. "Oh, yes, he did. And, oh yes, he did. Obviously. He blasted into the parking garage like a bearded ten-speed missile. Blasted right into her. She's still sore. You may have noticed. Somehow, though the impact knocked him out, he seems...fine."

Sarah thought about Morgan following Zondra from 212, back at the hotel. _He did seem...fine. _

"That's when Bryce and Jill showed up. Jill shot Zondra, but Zondra had on a vest. Later, Zondra showed up to save us from...wherever Bryce and Jill left us. But she had a new mission then, to find us, not kill me. Obviously. Graham had changed his mind, I guess."

Sarah was still trying to put it all together. "So, Morgan attacked Zondra, allowing the two of you to get away, or for Bryce and Jill to take you, and Zondra..._likes_...Morgan?"

Ellie giggled. "I think she does. When she saved us, she thanked him for saving her...And since then, she's kept being...grateful."

Sarah blinked, considering. "She doesn't seem quite like the Zondra I remember."

Ellie leaned forward against the seat, ignoring her mother and focusing on Sarah. "I'm pretty sure she thinks the same thing about you. I saw her reaction to our discussion of Chuck in the car."

"Wait," Frost growled, "Zondra tried to kill you - and yet you trust her?"

Ellie pinched her lips in thought. "Not quite right, Mom. Zondra was given a termination order for me and she planned it, but I don't take it to be right to say she tried to kill me. That suggests she had the will, just not the opportunity, that she would have done it if Morgan hadn't heroed onto the scene. But the more I think about it, the more I think she wouldn't have ever pulled that trigger. Maybe she wished she could, or part of her did, but she couldn't. Zondra's not a killer, not like that, anyway."

Sarah rolled her shoulders slightly. Ellie's comment felt like a punch. Frost gestured toward Sarah. "Well, Ellie, you know that Sarah here had a termination order for Stephen, for your dad."

"What?" Ellie's voice shot through the car's roof.

Sarah glanced at Frost, a question. Frost shrugged. "It was going to come out sooner or later. Might as well be...sooner."

"Like that makes it better?" Sarah asked, anger coloring her face. "I would have told her. But now? With so much on the line? A few minutes from Fleming's office?"

Frost shrugged again. Sarah could not tell if this was a moment of revenge for her having hunted Stephen or if it was an attempt by Frost to redirect Ellie's dismal stare, or if it was Frost's attempt to tell Ellie what she feared about Stephen. Last night's discussion never made explicit that Sarah believed Stephen was dead, or that Frost now did too.

"Yes," Ellie," Sarah began, "it's true. Chuck knows. I hunted your dad - I didn't know he was your dad - across Europe but never caught him."

Ellie gave Sarah a hurt look. "Obviously, or he wouldn't still be alive."

Frost turned to face her daughter. "Ellie, we're afraid Stephen is...dead. He died in Bryce's attack on his lab."

Ellie's face drained of all color. "And you can just look at me and tell me that, Mom?"

Frost put her hand out to Ellie, reaching across the seat. "I'm still trying to come to terms with it, Ellie. I only found out yesterday, the day before. But we have to save Chuck. We can mourn Stephen afterward. I don't want to mourn my husband and my son at the same time."

Ellie fell back against the rear seat, leaving Frost's extended hand empty.

"God help you two! And God help Dad...and Chuck...for loving two women like you. How could anyone ever trust either of you?" Ellie's dismal stare returned but she directed it out the window, out at Bozeman, ignoring the front seat.

Frost winced, delayed, as if the full weight of Ellie's words took a few seconds to settle on her. She looked at Sarah and whispered. "Sorry."

Sarah looked up into the rearview. "But you trust _Zondra_," Sarah stated quietly. Ellie did not react to the statement but she heard it.

Obviously.

* * *

Casey was trying to understand. He had just gotten off the phone with Beckman. The termination orders for Bartowski and Walker were no longer in effect. She had even suggested that Casey take a week or two of leave before he returned to DC.

He was going to have to talk to Carina about it all.

But not yet. Fleming's house was not that far from the hotel, and they were there.

Casey parked on the street a half-a-block away. He shut the car off and looked at Carina, seated next to him. "That one," he nodded in the direction, "the white one with the green shutters." Carina turned to look at Zondra. She was beside Morgan in the rear seat. She nodded. Casey was watching them in the mirror.

"So, let me guess," Morgan said, looking at Zondra, "I get to stay in the car?"

Zondra gave him a bright grin. "Yes, but remember, you have nothing to prove to me, Morgan." She leaned over and gave him a peck on the lips. She pulled back and grinned again. "We'll be right back."

Shaking his head, Casey got out of the car. With a gesture, he sent Carina and Zondra toward the front door. He moved quickly behind the nearest house; he would enter Fleming's house from the rear, while they distracted him - assuming he was there. Casey felt his nerves wrench at the danger to Carina - and to Zondra. But they were professionals. They knew what they were doing, just as he did. They would rightly resent him if he did not acknowledge that. _Doesn't mean I have to like it. _He was not sure what was happening with Carina - he hated to admit he was about as lost with her as the Grimes kid seemed to be with Zondra - but he felt good about her, about last night with her.

And _this_, other than his wrenching nerves, felt good: a fight with Fulcrum at last, with a clear enemy: Bryce Larkin. Casey could hardly have fantasized a better nemesis. No more damn shadows. No termination order. Acting on his own conscience and not on someone else's missing conscience. _What happened to you, General?_

Casey approached the rear of Fleming's house, slowing down as he did. He scanned the backyard from behind a neighbor's huge tree. No one in sight. There was a back porch but it was empty. Casey loped across the yard, gulping it in large strides. He vaulted over the steps, up from the ground to the porch, landing with complete quiet. Casey had always taken pride in how silent he could be, given his size. He stepped to the back door. He heard nothing. Then he heard Carina talking to Zondra, something about a neighborhood watch. _Good job, Carina. _He heard a knock on the front door and Zondra going on about a recipe for enchiladas. _Enchiladas? Thought she was Italian. _Casey pushed the question from his mind and turned the back door's knob. It turned - unlocked. Casey grunted, silently, in surprise.

He opened the door, gun in hand.

* * *

Sarah was able to pick the lock on Fleming's door while Ellie and Frost blocked her from view. Luckily, there was not much foot traffic in the building. The three of them stepped inside. The office looked like a professor's office. The only noticeable thing was the open newspaper on the desk. Sarah looked at it. A story about Fleming. A picture of him and the MSU president. She scanned the story but it was standard news fare. Ellie and Frost were searching the bookshelves.

Sarah rifled through the desk drawers but found nothing. She stooped down and looked up under the desk, at its bottom. Nothing - except some old gum. But as she started to stand, she saw a tranq dart under the desk. She reached under, squatting down further to reach it. She pulled it up. Standard CIA issue. She ran her hand along its tip, careful not to prick her skin. Wet. It had been used recently.

Just as Sarah stood, Frost spoke excitedly, pulling a very thick, hardback book off the shelf. "Hey, it's William James' _Principles of Psychology_! Stephen revered this book. Called it 'the origin'. He thought James was confused here and there, but usefully. He often used this book in lectures. Look, this copy was purchased at the UCLA bookstore, years ago. Back when Stephen was teaching there." She flipped through the pages and pulled a folded yellow sheet out. She opened it. "It's a syllabus for one of Stephen's courses." She handed the syllabus to Ellie and flipped through the remaining pages. She found another folded sheet, this one not yellowed. She opened it as she had the earlier one. "Huh. It's a receipt for a shipment - a few days ago. The shipment was of computer equipment, it looks like, and it went to...The Old Meat Science Lab. What would Fleming be doing there? Hey, there's a campus address."

Sarah got Frost and Ellie's attention, holding up the dart. She explained quickly to Ellie what it was. Ellie looked sick. "Chuck?"

Sarah took a breath. "Maybe. Since we are on campus, maybe we should check out the...Meat Science Lab?"

Frost nodded. "Yes. Let's hurry. Give me your phone and I will call Casey on the way."

* * *

Brown was...flabbergasted.

Graham had been angry but not at Brown. Brown did not know who or what Graham was angry at, but it was not him.

Graham had told Brown to contact Walker and recall her from her mission. She was to abort and come back to DC at her convenience. Graham did not explain. He simply gave Brown the new orders and dismissed Brown.

_What the...? _

Langley was a damned Hall of Mirrors. Who knew what was what from moment to moment, who was who? It was no wonder his dad refused to ever visit him there.

* * *

Bryce fastened his seatbelt, looking to make sure Jill had done the same. The small prop plane was already beginning to move. The copying machine with Chuck on it - the Intersect on it - was carefully stored and lashed behind Bryce's seat.

He had done it. He had the Intersect. _A viable Intersect_. Chuck had made it viable. And in time to do what Bryce had planned to do with it all along. He rubbed his palms on his legs in excitement. He felt the knife in his pocket. That knife. He had not planned to use it on Chuck but he needed to know if Chuck had found Frost. That would not be good. Bryce had been careful around her but she was a hard and brilliant woman. None other could have survived her life. Bryce had not wanted to cut her as he had but he had needed answers and she would not yield to other means, not even truth serum. But when he discovered the scars and her fear of them, he knew he could make her tell him what he needed to know. It was fitting that he had found the knife his father gave him just before he resorted to that form of torture. It somehow seemed _full-circle _to torture Chuck's mother with the blade Bryce's torturer, his father, had given to him.

He had not wanted to cut Frost, Chuck's mom - but he did not regret it.

_Chuck_. The poor dumb bastard, always whining about losing his parents. Bryce would have been glad to lose his, especially his father. But Bryce's father had taught him well. Taught him how to manipulate, to deceive, in particular, his father had taught him how vulnerable the lonely were, and how easy they were to manipulate. His father had been a genius at creating loneliness in his son and then in exploiting his vulnerability. _Object lesson. _What Bryce had done to Chuck was a version of what Bryce's father had done to him.

Bryce knew the apparent power of his smile. It appeared an anodyne to loneliness. But Bryce knew it was an amplifier of loneliness.

It was his father's smile, after all.

* * *

The sound of knocking, again.

Still.

Blackness to greyness to whiteness.

Chuck was himself but before, himself yesterday, many yesterdays ago. He was looking at a computer screen. A game, he thought. He pushed a button and the screen effloresced. A thousand images containing a thousand images. Patterns and subpatterns. Wholes and parts. It all flashed before his eyes. It took forever. It took no time. And then it was done.

He stood in front of the screen, unsure of himself, unsure what had happened. He was still standing there when his dad came into the room. Chuck heard his dad gasp, say Chuck's name, but Chuck could not seem to move. Something was moving inside him and it was taking all his energy, occupying the center of his consciousness. He was processing. Processing.

His dad grabbed his shoulders gently, turned him away from the screen. "Chuck?"

His dad's voice was choked. Chuck blinked. Processing. "Chuck?"

At last: "Yeah, Dad?"

His dad's relief was immediate. He said Chuck's name again as if asking a new question.

"It's me, dad. That new game - kinda cool but it sure finishes fast."

"And you feel...okay?"

Chuck grinned. "Yeah, fine. A little dizzy, but fine." He stepped past his dad, leaving the study. "Okay if I go see Morgan?"

His dad stared at him hard, in disbelief. Chuck's grin grew. "I know, I know, Morgan! But he's my buddy, dad."

Smiling tightly, his dad gestured toward the front of the house, the door. "Go ahead. But come home right away if your head starts to hurt of the dizziness increases, alright?"

Chuck waved at his dad as he left. "Alright!"

Chuck could now recall that he had felt...odd...for a few days. Not sick. Not dizzy. Just...off-color.

Then, it changed. His sense of things around him seemed to become clearer, sharper-edged, as if someone had...turned the sun _up_, not _on. _It had been on. It was now up. Brighter, more revealing. He had strange dreams for a couple of nights, images of images. But after a while the clarity, the brightness became familiar. The dreams stopped.

Chuck had downloaded the Intersect but it had not harmed him. It had changed him. But that was not the entire story. It had changed him but he had changed it. That had been a primitive version of the Intersect, nothing like what was in his head now. Virulent, churning.

As Bryce had shown him the slides, he had felt the Intersect claiming him, could feel it eating its way deeper into his brain, his mind. It had started as an alien presence - as if it were his father. It had assimilated Chuck more and more, each time he flashed and each time he responded to its promptings. He had been ceding himself little by little. He had not just been obeying - he had been becoming it.

His mind felt inorganic, steely. His veins and nerves systems of rubber tubing and copper wires. Chuck Bartowski. Mr. Roboto. Lt. Commander Data. Skin job, a replicant. More than a machine. Less than human. He felt like he was being submerged into a vat of mercury, the quicksilver filling his nostrils, his mouth, his skull. _Hg. _Watery silver. Watery silver death. Assimilation.

Whiteness to greyness to blackness.

And still the sound of knocking.

* * *

Casey smelled blood.

He knew the scent, knew it all too well. He gripped his gun, checking the safety. He stood still, waiting. He heard nothing, then a scuffling sound. Extending his gun before him, he padded further into the house. He had entered the kitchen. He passed through it, into the living room. There on the floor, was Fleming. He was in a pool of blood. Another man was kneeling beside him, shaking Fleming's shoulders. The man looked up at Casey.

At just that moment, Carina and Zondra came in, their guns out. Carina looked at Casey. He made an "I don't know" gesture with an eyebrow. The man had blood all over his hands, up to his elbows, and blood had soaked into the legs of his jeans. He put his hands up, blood running down from his palms toward his elbows.

Morgan walked in sneakily from the kitchen. He stopped. He boggled.

"_Mr. B?_"

Zondra growled at Morgan's appearance. "_Morgan!_"

The man squinted in disbelief. "_Grimes?_"

* * *

A/N: One chapter to go in Book Two.

_Palgrave_ is publishing a _Handbook on Popular Culture as Philosophy_. The editor contacted me last week to invite me to write a 10K essay on _Chuck_ (and another on the comedian, Steven Wright). I've agreed. I will post a draft of the _Chuck_ essay on my blog when I have completed it, but it will be September or so before that happens. Just a _heads-up_ to those of you who might be interested.

Chapter Theme: Better Oblivion Community Center, _Didn't Know What I Was in For_


	31. Chapter 29: Meat Science, Meet Science

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Here we are at the end of Book Two: _Fathers and Sons. _Thanks for sticking with this tail-chasing tale.

* * *

"_God help you two! And God help Dad...and Chuck...for loving two women like you. How could anyone ever trust either of you?" Ellie's dismal stare returned but she directed it out the window, out at Bozeman, ignoring the front seat. _

_Bryce knew the apparent power of his smile. It appeared an anodyne to loneliness. But Bryce knew it was an amplifier of loneliness.  
It was his father's smile, after all._

_His mind felt inorganic, steely. His veins and nerves systems of rubber tubing and copper wires. Chuck Bartowski. Mr. Roboto. Lt. Commander Data. Skin job, a replicant. More than a machine. Less than human. He felt like he was being submerged into a vat of mercury, the quicksilver filling his nostrils, his mouth, his skull. _

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

**Meat Science, Meet Science**

* * *

Tuesday, early afternoon

* * *

Blackness to greyness to whiteness.

Chuck heard his dad from long ago: "You're special, Chuck. Special."

His dad had said that after Chuck had first mistakenly downloaded the Intersect. Chuck was fine. He had told his dad so and his dad believed him. The belief was written in his father's look of admiration and wonder.

And then his dad's voice changed. It became another voice. _The voice. Her voice. Sarah's voice. _Chuck could hear her, as if she was talking to him from the far end of a distant tunnel, her voice echoing but clear.

"You're special, Chuck." Her voice was choked, full of love and desperation. Full of love.

Love. Like a tractor beam. _Tractor Supply. _Sarah in that blue coat with nothing beneath it but her, walking toward him in a hotel room.

"I love you, Chuck Bartowski, and you cannot leave me."

* * *

They had found him.

The Old Meat Science Lab was a disused, fusting building on the edge of campus, old and unkempt. Evidently, all the attention was being paid to the New Meat Science Lab, wherever that was. The grass had not been cut; the place, not rank, was weedy. No birds sang.

Sarah had jimmied a door and they had gone inside. It was dark, cold. Frigid air. They passed through a long hallway, lab rooms on the sides empty of everything except old furniture. Stray sheets of paper marked the hallway floor, academic tumbleweeds.

At the end of the hallway was a room, the sole lit room they had seen. Sarah and Frost led the way, Ellie walking anxiously behind.

In the room, they found him. _Chuck_.

_Chuck!_

Wordlessly, Sarah rushed to him, fell on his upper body, kissed him, kissed his whole face, tears streaming down hers. It took her a second to realize that he was cold. Frost was watching, but standing by the door, keeping a look-out, her face pinched, anxious. Ellie had run to the other side of the bed. She scanned the machines, the wires, and the electrodes.

"Is he…?" Sarah asked, looking up at Ellie, her arms clutching Chuck. _My boyfriend._

"No. No. He's alive but...low...his vitals are low. Except for this." Ellie waved at one machine, its screen covered with a pattern of ups and downs, white jagged lines. "His brain is spinning. I've never seen..."

Ellie reached out and took one of Chuck's hands, feeling his pulse. "I think...This sounds like a joke...but...I think his blood is all in his head. This one." She pointed at Chuck's face with a slight grin. She swept her index finger around to point at a screen. "These readings...I've never seen brain activity like this. The readings spiked when you touched him, spoke to him, Sarah. Talk to him."

Sarah felt strange, Chuck in her arms, Ellie beside them, Frost watching. But this was Chuck, her Chuck. She would tell him, audience be damned. She inhaled.

"Sarah," Ellie said sharply, interrupting, "I'm sorry about...before. It's just that my life seems to have an infinite number of false bottoms. When I think I finally understand, it turns out that the understanding was a misunderstanding...I keep wedging my feet down, trying to touch bottom, reality, beneath all this spy shit but," Ellie glanced at Frost, who looked away, scanning the hall or pretending to, "...Well, never mind, talk to him, Sarah. You're the key, his key."

Sarah looked back at Chuck. She released her hold on his shoulders and took the hand nearest her. "Chuck. You're special, Chuck." Her voice thickened for a moment, and she could not go on, but she forced the words out. "I love you, Chuck Bartowski, and you cannot leave me." Sarah paused.

Ellie was watching the screen. She nodded. "Keep talking, Sarah. He needs you."

Sarah turned back to Chuck's face, slack and pale. "I need you, Chuck. I think I always have. I've been...hunting you for years. You were always my target. My heart's target." She swallowed hard, feeling Frost's eyes on her, Ellie's.

"I think I first knew in Budapest. You know I had that mission since you know about them all. But I don't think Graham ever recorded the details.

"I was partnered with another agent, a man named Ryker. We were supposed to rescue a girl from a gang that had murdered her parents and had kidnapped her. Ryker was playing both sides, a kind of double-agent, but I didn't know that at first. I just knew the whole thing seemed...wrong.

"He sent me in to rescue her. I did, Chuck, but to do it I had to kill - to kill and kill. All the gang members. Ryker had arranged the whole thing but the gang leader, one of the men in the house where the girl was being held, did not know that Ryker had arranged it. The man had turned, refused to hand the girl over unless more money was paid. Ryker requested me. Graham sent me. Ryker was expecting I would either kill them all, or enough of them that he could then deal with the remainder - and with me, since he thought I would be unsuspecting."

Sarah looked up. Ellie was staring at her. Frost was too. She went on, turning back to Chuck.

"I got into the house. I had to fight my way to the girl. Only she wasn't a girl. I mean, she was, but she was a baby, not even a year old. I found her and fought my way out. I killed a lot of men that day, Chuck." She glanced at Ellie. "I can do that, as you know. I did it. That little girl, that baby, was innocent, and I was going to save her." Sarah's voice hardened with memory. "I got her out and I 'double-crossed' that bastard, Ryker. I got the baby out - and I ran with her. As far from the rendezvous with Ryker as I could get on my feet."

Her voice softened again. "She was tiny, Chuck, tiny, and I had never cared for a baby, never really been around one, not even under cover. I had no idea what to do but I figured it out - with some help from my mom. I called her. She told me what to do, talked me down.

"I spent several days hiding in a dank hotel room on the edge of Budapest, feeding that baby girl, holding her, watching her sleep. And...And I started to hear something, Chuck, a rhythmic sound." Sarah heard Ellie trill and Sarah looked up at her, but Ellie motioned for her to keep going.

"It took me a while, longer than it should have, Chuck, but I'm not a...normal girl... to figure that sound out. I did, finally. It wasn't my biological clock," Sarah gave Chuck a small smirk, as if he heard her, was talking to her, "so don't freak out. It was...my heart. My human heart. My woman's heart.

"That baby taught me that all I had done, it was what I had _done_...It was not who I _was. _Who I am, Chuck. The spy I was not the woman I had to be. I'm the woman who makes love to you, Chuck: that's me, _the real Sarah_. Not Agent Walker, not the Enforcer, not the Ice Queen.

"Human beings aren't born good, I know that, how could I not, given my life? But we are born to become good. And that...possibility was open to me - even to me. I began to see how to make it a reality when I saw your picture. I can't explain it; I just knew. I was never going to hurt you, even if I didn't know that quite. I just wanted to find you; I just _wanted_ you."

She paused, gathering herself, her thoughts and feelings. "I left the baby with a woman, a desk clerk I thought I could trust, and found Ryker in Budapest. We fought. I killed him too, Chuck, in an alley in Budapest.

"I was way, way off-mission by then. I managed to sneak the baby back to the States. She's with my mom. My mom is going to raise her, is raising her. They're happy."

Sarah glanced at Ellie then at Frost. They were both hanging on the story.

"Innocence, Chuck. It's not something you have and then lose, once and for all. It's something there for all of us, to be...reclaimed...if we really want it. I want to be innocent with you, Chuck, to have you teach me how to do that. Come back to me, Chuck. To me, Sarah, not Agent Walker. I love you." Sarah stopped talking and leaned on Chuck's chest. She felt Ellie's hand on her shoulder, rubbing it.

"His pulse is stronger, Sarah. There's color in his face."

Sarah felt another hand on her other shoulder. Frost's hand. Frost spoke to Ellie, softly. "Is he going to make it, Eleanor?"

"I don't know," Ellie answered. "But he's stabilized."

There was noise in the hallway. All three women turned. Frost had her gun ready. Sarah grabbed hers up from Chuck's bed. She had discarded it when she took him in her arms.

Casey walked in. Carina and Zondra followed. Frost lowered her gun, as did Sarah.

Morgan came in next, an unsure smile on his face. And then a man followed Morgan into the room, a man covered in blood.

"Stephen?" Sarah heard Mary gasp. Mary collapsed onto the floor.

Ellie: "Daddy?"

* * *

Beckman blew out a breathe slowly.

She looked at the computer screen. This was it. The only chance she had to try to escape what she had done. Who knew what would happen? She pushed the button, submitting her resignation letter. Bryce would not expect that. It was the only surprise for him she had left.

Middle age. Crises. That was supposed to be the province of men, their peculiar failing. Beckman had climbed the ranks when there were supposed to be things 'open to men' that were 'not open to women'. Rank, distinction, glories. She had shown them, shown herself, that it was _all_ open to women too. _No limitations implied in the female organism_.

She bitterly recalled that moment near the end of _Adam's Rib_, when Katherine Hepburn, Amanda, quips to Spencer Tracy, Adam: "Men, women. No difference." Beckman had spent a life showing that she could do what women were claimed to be unable to do, what only men were claimed to be able to do. She had falsified those claims. She was going to end her career falsifying another: _The midlife crisis was a failing peculiar to men_.

_Everything_ was open to women. The good and the bad..._and the stupid_.

Beckman had convinced herself she cared for Larkin. She had become jealous of Sarah Walker because of it, because Walker had been with him, the same in age. The truth was that Beckman had been infatuated with the idea of Larkin, the thought that she could interest and attract him, her resultant feeling of renewal and empowerment. The feeling that she had pushed Death back a few steps at least.

_Old fool_. She rubbed her face and picked up the phone. One more humiliation to go. She called Roan. Time for a final confession.

She was tempted to blame Roan for what she had done. Or at least to blame the half-real, half-unreal...thing...between them all these years. She had never been willing to commit to it. He had never been willing to commit to it. Neither was willing to give it up.

Beckman now realized that she had hoped her thing with Roan would stave off her loneliness, allow her to pursue her career without a constantly empty bed. But it had made the loneliness worse, constantly revealing to her what might be without ever allowing her to have it.

And she preached against half-measures to her subordinates.

_General, heal thyself._

The heart does not hold halfway; it advances or it retreats. It is not fit for cold wars. _A soldier should know that. Should have known that._

'Hello, Roan. It's Diane."

* * *

Ellie had retreated into a corner of the room, backpedaling to the juncture of walls, staring aghast, at her dad, her alive dad, her bloody dad, her dad.

She rubbed her eyes, tried to understand the scene but it had altered, now a trompe l'oeil nightmare scene, forced perspective but unintelligible. Part of her recognized her mom, crumpled on the floor but another part of her smelled pancakes, missed and missing pancakes.

_No pancakes. No dad. Just Ellie. And Chuck. Everyone gone, only Ellie left to carry on. Daddy!_

Her dad ran to her mother, stooped, started to pick her up, then stopped. He looked at her, frozen, lost. "Mary." Casey came to her dad's aid; he bent and picked Mary up. Zondra came in from the hallway rapidly pushing a desk chair. Casey put Ellie's mom in it.

The whole family - the _not-so-whole_ family - all in one room. Chuck and her mom unconscious, her dad a bloodbath. She rubbed her eyes again. She heard her dad finally speak, turn to Sarah, still standing next to Chuck, her gun lowered but still in her hand. "Agent Walker. So we meet face-to-face at last. Pleasant to find that your gun is not pointed at me." Sarah nodded, her face betraying her confusion and surprise.

Carina waved at Sarah, trying to get her attention. "Sorry to just burst in. We tried to call, send a text, but I guess you can't get anything in this steak bunker. Is there really Meat Science? Is it a major? Why didn't anyone tell me? I should have an honorary degree!"

Everyone in the room but Casey and Stephen laughed, although the laughter was strained. But laughing reoriented Ellie, centered her. The scene came alive again, real. She ran across the room and threw herself in her dad's arms, trying to put long years of longing into one long hug.

Stephen hugged her back, whispering in her ear. She could not make out the words but she knew the voice. Her dad. She whispered one word over and over, a conjuration, not to make him real but to keep him real: "Dad."

* * *

Sarah watched Ellie hug her dad. She put her gun down and took Chuck's hand. Stephen eventually unwound Ellie from him. He kissed her cheek then he pointed to Chuck. "How is he? What's Larkin done?"

Ellie turned doctor. "I'm not sure. When we came in, Chuck's vital signs were low and sinking. Sarah touched him and…" Ellie smiled weakly but genuinely at Sarah, "...she talked to him. He stabilized. Warmed and colored."

Stephen nodded. "Chuck's always been so...tough. Even when he was a boy, he reminded me of that phrase of Churchill's, his advice to POWs: 'Possess your soul in patience.' Chuck's tough like Job was tough, potshard and ashes." Stephen put his hand on Ellie's shoulder. "He was always too much for fucking Larkin. Just like you." He walked to the other side of Chuck's bed with Ellie.

He extended his hand to Sarah. "I need to thank you. Carina insisted on telling me a remarkable story as we came here." He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "The books between us are balanced, Agent. Thank you for sparing my son, for saving my son...and more, I think." Sarah nodded and shook Stephen's hand, paying no attention to the bloodstains.

She glanced at Carina, who was watching the scene with a true shit-eating grin on her face. She nodded at Sarah and winked. Sarah nodded in gratitude.

"Check him, Ellie," Stephen requested, gesturing to Chuck. "I need to see about Mary."

Sarah saw a flash of confusion on Ellie's face. She had expected her father to react differently to her mother. But Stephen did not seem embittered or angry. Hurt and worried, but not embittered or angry.

He walked quickly to Mary and took one of her hands in his. He rubbed it gently, calling her name.

She roused. Opening her eyes, she gazed at her husband in wonder. "Stephen!" She looked down at his hand rubbing hers and looked back up in question. Stephen smiled sadly at her. "Are you okay?"

She gave him a significant look. "Better...now."

Sarah felt her hand being squeezed. She whirled to Chuck. His eyes were open and he was looking at her. His brown eyes were deeply fatigued but still warm, so warm.

"Sarah," his voice was soft, weak. "I heard. I listened. I'm not leaving. I love you."

Sarah fell on Chuck's neck. "Oh, Chuck!" She realized the room had gone quiet. In the quiet, she heard Mary repeat: "Better...now."

* * *

Chuck was sitting up in bed. Sarah had not left his side. She had not broken physical contact with him. Chuck was not entirely sure what was happening or where he was. The room was full of Sarah - but in another sense, it was full of other people. His family. Mom and Dad. Ellie. Carina. Morgan. The man from the bus terminal, Casey. A lovely woman with dark hair he had never seen but who kept stealing glances at Morgan.

The woman, Zondra, Carina called her, had left the room with Morgan and come back with more chairs and some stools. Pretty soon, everyone had a place to sit. While everyone listened, Sarah told Chuck a set of abridged stories: Carina and Casey following them to Montana, finding her and his mom in the barn, driving to Bozeman. Ellie and Morgan and Zondra escaping from Fulcrum and flying to Bozeman.

Chuck listened to it all in disbelief. All these separate stories knotted together in the Old Meat Science Lab of MSU. Chuck started to talk, to tell Sarah and everyone what he remembered, but Ellie stopped him. "No, Chuck. Rest. Listen. Take some time. You can tell us later. We have another story to hear. Dad, how did you end up in Bozeman?"

* * *

Brown was sitting in his desk chair, nodding, more asleep than awake. He had allowed himself a few minutes to relax after texting Graham's new orders to Walker.

His phone beeped and he jerked, knocking his cane to the floor. He looked at the notification, expecting it to be Walker. It wasn't.

It was an email to his personal, encrypted account. No one had that address, no one who was alive. His dad had it. The email had been sent from an anonymous account. The subject line read: _Langston Graham, Financial Records_.

Brown opened the attached file.

* * *

Sarah watched Stephen look at Ellie, then around the room. He had just finished wiping his hands and was drying them with a piece of paper from a bathroom in the building. He crumpled the wet paper and dropped it into a wastebasket. He looked at Mary. She looked down.

"I got here more or less the way Chuck did."

"What's that mean?" Morgan asked.

"It's hard to know where to start. How much you know or don't know. Let me start with a few facts. The Intersect Chuck has, the one Larkin sent him, is a copy of my Intersect from months ago, from back when I first began to interact with Larkin. My guess is that it first presented itself to Chuck as if it were me, probably after his first flash?'

Chuck nodded as everyone looked at him. Chuck responded although Sarah and Ellie both motioned for him to remain quiet. "Wait. You mean the Intersect I have is...out-of-date?"

"Chuck, listen to Ellie and to Sarah. Please. The answer is yes and no. It's the best version I ever created, but..." Stephen paused.

Morgan groaned and rubbed his forehead. Zondra slipped her arm around him and gave him a comforting squeeze.

"It is out-of-date where I am concerned, but the Agency data on it was up-to-date, more or less, when you got it. You see, I don't have the Intersect any more, and I haven't had it since my first interactions with Larkin. I finally figured out how to remove the damn thing."

Sarah and Ellie and everyone else straightened in their chairs. Chuck's eyes grew intense. Sarah asked, "So you can get it out of Chuck's head?"

"Yes, but I will have to have time. I have to build a new one. The old one was destroyed in Larkin's attack on my lab."

"But it can be done?"

"Yes." He smiled at Sarah. "I'll get to work right away." He then spoke to everyone. "You see, I was suspicious of Larkin right away. As Shakespeare practically said: 'You can smile and smile and still be a shithead.' Anyway, I was certain he was Fulcrum. The more time he spent with me, the more certain I was of that. I made him my 'drinking buddy'. I can't believe he didn't recognize the tactic from the Farm, but he was so sure of himself and so sure I was...a little daft, daffy. I played it up. I admit I slipped a bit, drinking with him. He managed to steal my slides - but I will explain that in a minute."

Casey grunted. "I still don't see how this explains your ending up here the same way Chuck did."

"Oh, right," Stephen said, reminded. "The version of the Intersect Chuck has came packaged with a sort of _Prime Directive._"

Casey wrinkled his brow as did Zondra. Morgan jumped in. "Like in _Star Trek_." Morgan looked around the room smiling after Stephen nodded, obviously feeling less behind than usual. For the moment.

"I built in a...compulsion. _Find Fulcrum_. Actually," he paused to glance at his wife, "I built in two...compulsions. _Destroy Fulcrum _and_ Find Mary._ I wanted the Intersect to 'focus' on the mass of data it would contain, to find patterns in it unavailable to any human since it could not be held in consciousness at one time. To borrow a phrase from William James," Ellie looked at her mom, "'the stream of consciousness' would surge up and over its banks, too much, vastly too much. But the Intersect could do it and could then present the 'results' to its bearer, its host. To Chuck, in this case. So the Intersect was working all the time, not just during flashes, and it was presenting itself to Chuck, not just in the form of cognizable bits of information, but in feelings, compulsions, needs, habits. For instance, although Chuck will have to confirm this, my guess is that my habits, my spy habits, and maybe other habits, began to manifest in him."

Chuck nodded and offered up a phrase. "Tootsie Rolls."

Mary reacted without thinking. "But you don't like Tootsie Rolls, Chuck."

"Exactly," Stephen said. As he spoke, Sarah looked at Chuck and they shared a smile. Sarah knew that the Tootsie Roll he left her in the Tarzana house was still in her front pocket. It had been all along.

"So, Chuck ended up in Bozeman because Fleming was here. The Intersect put it together, led him here."

"Okay," Casey said, "so that's how Chuck did all that spy stuff."

"No, not exactly. The Intersect pushed and prodded, compelled. But whatever Chuck did - and I don't know that 'stuff' yet, that was Chuck. The Intersect can interfere with actions but it can't force actions. So, the ideas, the improvisations, all Chuck. All the Intersect could do was get Chuck there and provide him with relevant habits. How he actualized those habits, the specific things he did, those were all Chuck. Keep in mind that the habits I am talking about are not mere automations, blind habits; they require the use of intelligence."

"So, the spy thing runs in the family," Casey observed. Ellie coughed like she had choked.

Stephen looked at his daughter repentantly. "I guess it does. Chuck ended up in Outlook because Mary was there."

Sarah had seen a question in Mary's eyes when Stephen had said 'Find Mary'. Mary asked it finally. "But, Stephen, why would you build that compulsion in? You thought...you thought _I was dead_."

Stephen closed his eyes. He swayed a little and took a few breaths. He opened his eyes. "Yes, I did, for a long time. I was...very sad for a long time, and the Intersect made that even worse. That was one reason I had to remove it from myself. You remember that the Intersect was never good at processing emotions, strong...negative emotions?" Mary nodded guiltily. "Well, when Chuck first downloaded the Intersect…"

"What?" Elle asked, standing. "He's done this before? Fuck!"

Stephen paused as the word echoed in the Meat Science Lab. "Yes, when Chuck was a boy he downloaded it." Stephen looked at Mary, this time his nod was guilty. "I left it up and he thought it was a game. It was...when Mary was away on one of her missions. I was...distracted." Stephen held Mary's eyes for a moment then she glanced at Chuck.

"But it didn't hurt him?" Mary kept her eyes on Chuck. Sarah was stunned by it all; she tightened her grip on Chuck's hand and looked at him. He did not seem surprised by any of what was then being said. Ellie sat back down reluctantly.

"No, it didn't hurt him. I was terrified. I watched him. Followed him to Morgan's. Checked with the school. It didn't hurt him. I had a device that let me copy the Intersect - but not remove it. That's recent. I copied it one night while Chuck was sleeping, slowly and carefully, so as not to cause him any pain. When I studied the code, I realized I was...out of my depth.

"The Intersect did not hurt Chuck, break him; he fixed it, partially anyway. It wasn't that he added code exactly, it was like he changed the _Bedeutungskörper,_" Stephen stopped, self-conscious, "_s_orry, the _meaning-bodies_, of the code_. _It looked much the same but it worked in a different way. I couldn't replicate or change it, just retain it. That's when I divided the Intersect into two different versions. The one Chuck had not changed and the one he did. I knew the latter was the real future of the Intersect, if it had one. The other I used to...keep other interested parties occupied." Everyone stared at Chuck for a minute. He blushed and Sarah kissed the back of the hand she was holding.

"You should have told me, Stephen."

He stared at Mary. "We both had our secrets."

Mary shook her head, exhaled sadly. "That still doesn't explain why you built in a compulsion to find me."

"Well, that was because of Larkin."

"What?" Mary asked. "How?"

"Bryce was talking one night after we'd been drinking. I mentioned something about feeling hopeless. Bryce smiled at me and muttered, 'Full of hope I climbed the day.' I don't think he realized he said it. It just slipped out. But here's the thing," he faced Mary as he said this, "I know you know that poem," Mary's lips pressed together, "and I know it - but there is no way in hell Bryce Larkin knew it. Bryce Larkin quoting St. John of the Cross is far, far less likely than the Satan quoting scripture, despite the resemblance. He had to have heard it from someone else. Who?

"Maybe I was crazy, but I believed he had crossed paths with you, and I knew it had not been before...Costa Brava. I started to...hope." He paused. "To hope...well, just that you were alive." Neither Stephen nor Mary would look at the other.

"That doesn't explain how you are alive, Stephen," Sarah pointed out, the tension in the room rising, affecting everyone. She tried to change the conversation's direction.

"No, it doesn't. That's a different story. I expected Larkin's attack. Prepped for it, booby-trapped my lab. But I miscalculated. He attacked sooner than I expected. Most of the booby traps worked; the lab exploded. I got caught beneath the rubble. I had been under the lab, putting a final trap in place and trying to secure the removal device hidden there. The whole place caved in on my head and destroyed the device. I was unconscious for a time. Hurt, concussion. I thought Larkin was dead, along with the Fulcrum agents he brought with him. I didn't realize I was wrong about that until I finally arrived at another of my hideouts and got a hit on Larkin. He was at the LA airport with a woman. I worked out where he was going. Bozeman. I couldn't figure out why and then it occurred to me to look at the computer science folks at the university. I didn't know anyone. But then I stumbled on a photograph of Fleming on the Psychology webpage. He looked...familiar. It took a while, but I eventually traced records of him at UCLA. He audited courses of mine.

"I went and looked at his published papers. Plagiarism, blatant intellectual theft. He'd stolen bits and pieces of my work and published them as his own. It was old stuff of mine, sidelights, not integral to the Intersect, programming doodles," Stephen shrugged with visible pride, "but it was all publishable. It got him an Endowed Chair. It was galling, it stung my vanity. That's when I remembered that the stuff he stole was only written down in my journals. He had to have seen them. And that meant he likely saw my notes about Chuck," Stephen shook his head. "I came to Bozeman then. I knew, knew Fleming was Bryce's Intersect scientist, his primary one. I came and found Fleming in his house, shot, in a pool of blood. Bryce shot him and left him to die. Fleming told me that Chuck was in Bozeman, that Larkin had him and that Bryce had my slides. He died before I could find out where Larkin had Chuck."

"Why would Larkin do that, shoot Fleming, betray his...partner?" Zondra pressed the question. Sarah looked at her and Zondra knew it but Zondra did not acknowledge the look.

"Fleming and Larkin both believed the slides would end up killing the person exposed to them. I made them as...stimulants...They were to increase the speed with which the Intersect gets...psychologically assimilated. But I had never tested them. I made them because I wanted to speed psychological assimilation past physical deterioration.

"You see, it takes time to fully _have _the Intersect. It works immediately but it works better the longer it is hosted. The problem is that it damages the host, often undoing its long-term improvement. No one, until now," Stephen looked at Chuck, "has ever fully had the Intersect. But I think Chuck does."

Stephen recollected himself. "Larkin only wanted the Intersect - after Chuck rendered it viable. Fleming wanted Chuck, wanted to keep him alive, study him. At the end of the day, it was _Spy vs. Scientist_ and the spy won. As usually happens, I've learned." Sarah saw Frost lower her head. Sarah then glanced at Stephen and saw a flare of anger in his eyes for the first time as he stole a look at Frost's bowed head.

"But why did Larkin and Fleming believe it would kill Chuck?" Zondra again but Morgan, beside her, was shaking his head, seconding her question.

"Because I told Bryce that. Deliberate disinformation. I told him that full exposure to the slides, all thirteen of them, would end up creating assimilation so complete that the host's psychology would eventually be absorbed in the host's physiology." Stephen smiled to himself. "One of Larkin's flaws, one of the many, is that he believes he is an intellectual. He actually thought he understood the stuff I told him, that those words in that order made sense. I told him a number of things that weren't strictly true.

"Why Fleming believed I am less sure. But he was always behind me, scrambling to catch up. Maybe he just took it for granted that the combination of Larkin's powers of charm and of alcohol was a truth serum. Certainly, Larkin never suspected I was lying to him, manipulating him. It's a strange sort of contempt when someone contemns you for being - he thinks - unable to lie to him. Who knows?"

The room was silent until Morgan spoke again. "Um, so why is Chuck still alive? And is he okay? Will he be okay?"

Sarah braced herself but tried not to communicate it to Chuck's hand. She had glanced at Chuck. His eyes had been closing; he had been falling asleep, although she had seen him fighting it. But his eyes opened when Morgan asked the question. Before Stephen could answer, Morgan went on. "And what does it mean to say that Chuck 'rendered it viable'? Is it like _Kopi Luwak_?" Morgan was visibly excited.

Now Stephen was confused. "_Copy_ what?"

"No, Kopi Luwak, the world's most expensive coffee. It's made from beans collected from civet sh...poop. Did Chuck, like, digest or partially digest the Intersect?" Again before Stephen could answer, Morgan went on, even more excitedly. "Or maybe Chuck's the _Kwisatz Haderach? _You know, he drinks the spice water but doesn't die, vomits it up pure? 'How can this be? He is the _Kwisatz Haderach_!'" Morgan had slipped into a high-pitched, girl's voice.

Stephen chuckled. "Kopi Luwak was beyond me. But I watched _Dune _with Chuck a long time ago.

"Yes, it's sort of like that, but without the overarching _Bene Gesserit_ mythology." Stephen looked around nervously at all the deadly women in the room, his daughter included.

"Chuck's mind, I think, is peculiarly suited to the Intersect. I'm not sure why. Maybe I had him in mind when I was creating it, as an unconscious model, and maybe I succeeded in a way that remains mysterious. I was imagining a person on whom nothing is lost. I don't know." He shrugged unscientifically. "But he proved as a boy that he can change the Intersect and not just be changed by it. I think he did it again - and in record time, given the massive size of the program and its additional burden, namely a copy of past me. If Chuck is here - and, thank God and Sarah, he is - then he's likely rendered the Intersect viable."

"That's great!" Morgan shouted, jumping up.

Zondra grabbed his belt and pulled him back down, looking toward Stephen and asking a question. "But that means that Bryce likely has a viable Intersect, doesn't it, Stephen?"

He nodded. "I fear it does. He wouldn't have left here, left Chuck here unless he thought he did."

"Why is it viable now but not after Chuck had it the first time?" Carina asked, breaking in.

"Because, as a boy, Chuck couldn't himself fully cope with strong, negative emotions. He had to grow up before he could render the Intersect grown up."

Ellie stood up. "Look, I hate to break up the party, but I really need to run some tests on Chuck, to see if all this...science...is right. I need to decide if it is safe to move him. Sarah, you can stay; I don't think Chuck is going to let you leave."

Sarah looked down. Chuck was asleep, but he had her hand in both of his, anchoring her to him, him to her.

"Casey, can you get rooms at the hotel again? Do you think it's safe?"

Casey nodded. "I think Larkin's done with Bozeman, Fulcrum's done with Bozeman."

"Good. Take folks there. I will call once I finish with Chuck. Everyone needs food, clothes, a shower." She looked at her dad.

Folks filed out. Casey was last. He gave Ellie a quick, informal salute. "I'll be waiting for your call. Sarah, you've got your gun?"

"Yes, Casey, but you're right. Bryce is done here. And he will be _done_ if I find him."

Casey grinned grimly. "I'd hate to be Bryce Larkin. Generally, mind you, because he's a psychotic asshole, but particularly, knowing that he has pissed off Frost and the Ice Queen." Casey gave a visible shiver and left.

Ellie looked at Sarah. "Take a minute with Chuck, Sarah. I'm going to go get a breath of fresh air before I start. That all..." She waved her hands in exasperation, "_That was a lot._"

Sarah had no adequate words. She stepped toward Ellie and opened her arms uncertainly. Ellie grabbed her and hugged her with certainty before she left the room.

Sarah turned. Rubbing her hand along Chuck's face, Sarah whispered his name. He opened his eyes.

"Hey, have I told you that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen? Like a dream..."

"Really, Chuck? More beautiful than Grace Kelly?"

"Yes," he said, his voice soft but convicted.

"You're a little delirious, Chuck."

"No, my brain's...tired...but my heart's lucid. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And thank you, Sarah, for everything, for putting up with the way...I've been. The Intersect wouldn't…"

Sarah put a finger gently on his lips. "I know, Chuck. Your mom helped me figure it out. And you told me a little while ago, remember, the most important secret of my secret-agent life."

Chuck looked a little lost. "Huh?"

"You told me you love me. That's the most precious secret of my life, Chuck."

He smiled at her, looking tired and happy. "Sarah?"

"Yes."

"Thanks too for Budapest. For telling me. For calling me back to you."

* * *

End

of

_Book Two: Fathers and Sons_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

A/N: I know, I know, you still have questions. There are further answers to come in Book Three: _Family Curse? _

(What is Bryce's plan? Is Chuck really okay? Will Morgan enjoy a steaming cup of civet poop coffee while wielding a deadly _G__om Jabbar_? - Sorry, _I'm_ a little delirious.)

Really love to hear from you here at the end of Book Two.

Chapter Theme: KT Tunstall, _Suddenly I See_


	32. Chapter 30: Reboot

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_Book Three: Family Curse? _begins. I anticipate it will take only a handful of chapters. I haven't yet apportioned incident across chapters, so I do not know the exact number.

The story will end with two epilogues.

This chapter is a talky prelude to _Book Three_.

* * *

"_Sarah," Chuck's voice was soft, weak. "I heard. I listened. I'm not leaving. I love you."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY

**Reboot**

* * *

Tuesday evening

* * *

Chuck leaned against Sarah in the backseat of the car.

Casey was driving, talking to Ellie. They were getting to know each other. It was a strange and awkward conversation, composed of Ellie's blunt questions and Casey's grunts.

Ellie had asked for Sarah's phone when they first got in the car. She wanted to call Devon. She spent several minutes with him on the phone. First, calming him down and second convincing him that she was okay. He evidently wanted to come to Bozeman and was talking about how he could make it, rearrange his schedule. She tried to resist but it was clear she really wanted him there. So, she ended up agreeing to meet him at the airport early the next day.

When she handed the phone to Sarah, she pointed out that Sarah had a text notification. Sarah took the phone and looked at the text. It was from Brown. Sarah stiffened as she stared at it.

**Intersect mission aborted. Graham ended it. Told me to tell you. You are to report back to DC at your convenience. **

**No joke.**

The message had come in a while ago. Sarah had not noticed it in all the effort to find Chuck and then all the conversation with Stephen. She tilted the phone toward Chuck so that he could read the text. He did; he looked at her with question marks in his eyes.

Sarah responded, knowing Chuck was watching.

**Sorry, tied up until now. Message received. Inform Graham that I am resigning, official paperwork to follow.**

Chuck caught Sarah's hand before she pushed _Send. _

"Sarah, are you sure? We don't know how this will all end. I seem to be okay but who knows...It's been your life."

She smiled at him. "Chuck, I can't go back. Not after us; not after what's happened. I am not the CIA's anymore. I am my own - and yours too." She pushed the button.

A moment later, Brown responded. **I am going to sit on that news for a bit. The Intelligence situation in DC is fluid at the moment. **

**Just got word that Beckman resigned from the NSA. **

"Casey," Sarah said, disbelief in her tone, "Beckman resigned today." Casey looked at her in the rearview mirror and nodded. "I talked to her earlier. Didn't have a chance to tell you. She didn't say...but I knew something was going on." He shrugged.

Brown continued: **Graham is not expecting you soon.**

**Have you found Chuck?**

Sarah: **Yes! **She was so happy about that, she allowed herself the exclamation mark.

Brown: **Good! Let me keep you on the Company books for now. You may need me and my supercomputer before this is over. Or CIA resources. If you plan to go on fighting Fulcrum, Larkin? **

Sarah glanced at Chuck. He nodded, tired but determined..

**We do. Okay. Larkin and Roberts in the wind. Larkin apparently is the leader of Fulcrum or one of its leaders. Let us know if you pick up his scent. **

**But I am done after this, Jacob. **

A moment later. **Will do. Good for you, Sarah. Everyone else is okay?**

**Yes, **Sarah typed, **and we have added a couple - Chuck's mother, Frost, and his father, Orion. **

There was no response from Brown for a long time, then: **Really? Frost and Orion are both alive? All the Bartowski's are in Bozeman? **

Sarah: **Yes.**

Brown: **Unbelievable. **

Reading the text, Chuck laughed softly, carefully shaking his head. "Tell me about it."

* * *

When they reached the hotel, Carina was waiting in the lobby. She walked up to Ellie, not Sarah.

"What are we supposed to do with your mom and dad? They, um, aren't eager to share a room. They aren't being nasty about it, but...no go." Carina moved on her feet to allow Sarah to join the conversation after she let Casey take Chuck for a minute. "So, how are we arranging things?"

"Well, we still have our rooms from before: 212, 214, 216. They have another room on the third floor, 304. That's all. It has two beds. Morgan made the mistake of handing the key cards to them both and that's when things got...tense. No shouting, just tense. I'm going to stay with Casey in 216. Zondra and Morgan will be in 212. But I don't know from there…"

Ellie sighed. "I will sleep in 304 with Mom and Dad. Joy, joy. But that'll leave you guys where you are and let Sarah and Chuck have 214. My boyfriend, Devon, will be here tomorrow, but we'll contend with that complication in the morning. I'll mention it to the desk clerk." Ellie looked at Sarah. "You and John take Chuck up to 214. I'll head up to the third floor and...well, I'll head up to the third floor."

Chuck had heard the conversation. "Thanks, Ellie. By tomorrow, I hope to be able to shoulder my share of...the burden."

"Do you know exactly what happened at Costa Brava, Chuck? Mom didn't really explain. Does it have something to do with her saying that Dad thought she was dead?"

Chuck looked at Sarah then back at Ellie. "Yeah, it does. But can we talk about it tomorrow?"

"I wouldn't let you tell me tonight. I've faced enough emotional upheaval for a lifetime in just a few days. I can do with an hour or two of just the current fucked-up _status quo_. Those two are just going to have to suffer through it...like we did." She added the last quietly but icily. She faced Carina. "Take me to my parents." Carina gave her a sympathetic smile, then led her away.

Chuck motioned for Casey to go too. "I can get to the room with Sarah." Casey turned and caught up quickly with Carina and Ellie.

"You Bartowski's are made of kevlar, I believe," Sarah said, watching the three of them get on the elevator. She smiled at Chuck but with sadness and sympathy in her eyes. "Do you think they can manage in a room together, the three of them, Stephen, Mary, and Ellie?"

Chuck gave her a tentative, one-sided grin. "Mom and Dad are both afraid of Ellie. I think they were from the time she could talk. Now? Well…"

Sarah chuckled. "Carina mentioned how much alike your mom and your sister are."

Chuck looked surprised. "Huh. Given that Ellie has been my mom, in effect, for so long, you'd have thought I would have noticed. But I hadn't. Carina's right, though." He thought for a moment. "_Carina_ noticed that?"

Sarah nodded. "I know. Say, Chuck, you know about the CATs, right? From my file?"

"Yes - and that's where I remembered Zondra from."

"You didn't flash on her?"

Chuck half-froze. "No, I didn't. I wonder if I still can flash? I wonder how all this is going to work, if it works?"

"I don't know. You need to talk to Stephen. But not now. Right now, we are going upstairs and we are going to sleep."

"Okay - but why'd you mention the CATs?"

"Oh, your comment about Carina. The three of us - there was a fourth, Amy, don't know where she is - but, the three of us. It's just odd to be together, here, with them. Your family is here, my old team is here...I keep expecting my high school mascot to show up."

They started slowly toward the elevator, Sarah's arm around Chuck's waist, steadying him. He smirked at her. "A cougar, right?"

It took her a second. "My mascot? Yes, how did you know? The Intersect?"

"I don't know. Hard to tell."

He gave her a funny look and blushed. She pushed the button for the second floor.

"What, Chuck?"

"I'm just glad to know it wasn't ever really my dad in my head. I thought he was going to see, you know, see _you _that first night when we…"

"Oh! When you told me to put something on?"

"Yes, believe me, not a request you are likely to hear from me often." He danced his eyebrows at her.

She smiled as the elevator rose, purposely keeping her eyes on the numbers above the door. "I guess the blood's not _all_ in that head anymore," she said flatly.

"Huh?"

* * *

Morgan and Zondra were shopping. Morgan had volunteered them to go to buy supplies and food. Zondra had seemed happy to do it.

They were finishing up in the department store, their cart full of clothes and toiletry items. Zondra had left Morgan for a minute and gone down an aisle. She came back and gave him one of her hard-to-read looks. "I'm going to try something on. Bring the cart and wait for me?"

"Sure." He followed her to the women's fitting booths. She went inside one. Morgan stood there for a moment, then glanced around him. He was standing alone in Women's Lingerie. He blushed although no one was around. He tried to keep his eyes off the items but he lost the battle. His imagination kept suggesting what Zondra might look like in the various lacy nothings hanging all around him.

He tried to force his mind elsewhere and his throbbing pulse to slow. But that just made the image of her, her feet bare and swinging off the bed, more irresistible. He reached into the cart and grabbed a couple of random items. He began reading the tags. He stepped closer to the cart so as to hide the now-visible physical effect the image was having on him. _I can't be standing here - like this - in Women's Lingerie. I'm going to get arrested. _

"Morrrgan…" Zondra purred his name quietly. He looked up and dropped whatever it was he had been holding. His visual field shrank to her photo-negative silhouette, Zondra in _VistaVision_, everything around her dark. Nothing else, not even Morgan himself, existed.

Zondra was standing in the open door of the fitting booth. She wore a candy-apple red wisp of lingerie. Nothing else. She reached up languorously, gathering her dark hair in her hands, and lifted it, exposing her long neck. She held that pose and gave him that smile he did not understand. She allowed his eyes to travel from her upswept hair to her bare feet, then she was gone.

Morgan stood for a moment, conscious only of her absence. He shook his head. He moved closer to the cart as an elderly woman passed by, giving him a disapproving look. From inside the fitting booth, he heard Zondra's soft laugh.

* * *

Carina was sitting on the bed. Casey was pacing the floor of the room.

He was talking about Beckman, trying to figure out her resignation. She knew he suspected - feared - that she had been involved with Fulcrum. The bugs in Carina's cover hotel room in Seattle had weighed on his mind, as had the whole Smythies business there. He clearly hoped Beckman had not dishonored herself, but…

But Carina also knew that there was something else fueling Casey's pacing, and she knew it was her and the object she was sitting on.

"Look, John, I never cared for Beckman. Tiny tyrant chasing stars. But I get that you did. I respect that. Mostly I respect that you want to serve someone you respect. I got over that a long time ago, I guess, although putting it that way makes it sound like I regard it as childish.

"I don't. Really, I don't. It's just - well, let's say that the DEA, especially the part of it I work for, is a shadow of the very shadow it combats. I haven't always faced that - and I've worked hard at times to keep from facing it - but I never really doubted it. I was never a Marine, no '_Oo rah_', no '_Semper Fi_' in the DEA - believe it or not.

"But that's not what's really bothering you right now, is it, or it isn't all that's bothering you?" Carina paused and he stopped pacing, although he was not facing her. "I'm what's bothering you. Us."

Casey rotated toward her. He grunted in the affirmative.

"And you are wondering if this is just this - a few magical rolls in the hay before I go back to work...and back to _me, _the real me?"

He looked down but grunted the same again.

Carina sighed. "John, I'm not going to apologize for my unromantic past. I made my choices; I was a grown-up girl; I did what seemed best to me. But you should know two things: one, it's always good for the enemy to overestimate your numbers; and, two, sneak attacks work best."

Casey finally entered English. "Huh, Carina?"

She smiled at him, feeling a strange new freedom. "I can't tell you where this is going, John. But that I can't tell you should tell you something. It certainly tells me something. And what I meant was: I've been afraid my entire life of...romance...of everything that went with it: poetry, candlelight, lingering glances. I guess I thought it was all...false, fake, a lie. Some strategy designed to _captivate me, capture me. _To steal me from me. I deliberately exaggerated certain features of my life - my nightlife - so as to discourage anyone from trying to romance me. That doesn't mean that I haven't...had more than my share of one-nighters.

"But I'm not as...as...as I lead people to think. Good God, I have a job. A dangerous job. When would I have slept if all I crowed about really happened? The other thing, you big grunting doofus, is that you have somehow romanced me. I don't think you intended it exactly, and it's an elephantine, clumsy, amateur business, but you did it. Snuck up on me. Sneak-attacked me in my own bed, as it were.

"My understanding of romance was...cock-eyed. Romance is about intimacy; it's really a _celebration_ of intimacy, achieved or hoped-for. It can be abused but that's what it is. It's about...giving...about charity, not theft. I'm beginning to understand that."

She got up and walked to the window, looking out into the distance, her arms around herself. "I don't know what's going to happen when this ends, John, but I know something _is_ happening. That, and this speech, that's all I can give you right now. But I do - _give it_, that is." She turned to look at him, allowing him to see the redness of her cheeks.

Casey grunted.

Romantically.

* * *

Ellie was in the bathroom. Mary sat staring at the door so as not to have to glance at Stephen, who was staring out the window.

"I started looking for you again, Mary, after Bryce used that line of poetry."

Mary did not let herself look at him although her eyes were profoundly hungry for the sight of him, and had been since she recovered from her faint. _Frost does not faint. _ But her shame was blinding. "Lord, Stephen, _why?_ After all I did? Not just Costa Brava. Before...and after..."

Stephen was silent for a long time, so long Mary thought that he might have forgotten the question or that he simply refused to answer it. He finally spoke as he stared out of the window, into the distance. "You're my wife."

* * *

It was late. Sarah woke up and uncurled from Chuck. She went to the bathroom. Although they had ordered a delivery pizza and eaten most of it before they went to sleep, she still felt hungry. She had eaten little for the last couple of days.

After checking on Chuck, and grabbing her wallet, she stepped into the hallway. She heard another door close. Sarah wheeled around. It was Zondra, leaving 212, clad, like Sarah, in a white hotel robe.

Zondra walked toward Sarah and Sarah waited. Zondra stopped, standing only a few feet from Sarah.

"I didn't do it, Sarah. I don't know who did or how, but I didn't. I told you the truth. All along."

Sarah inhaled. "I...believe you, Zondra. I was an ass. I hated the job so much that I couldn't bear to fail at it. I needed an explanation, a scape-goat. Does that make any sense?"

"You're talking to a woman who botched her Red Test, Sarah. I've had a chance - thanks to Ellie and Morgan, and thanks to you too - to re-evaluate my criteria of success and failure, to see that the Company's criteria are...well, they serve the Company."

Sarah felt herself blanch as the import of Zondra's words reached her. "Red Test? _Ellie_? Oh, Jesus, Z."

"I didn't do it, though. I don't think I could have, although I'm glad Morgan kept me from having to find out."

Sarah put her hand tentatively on Zondra's shoulder. "Good for you. And fuck Langston Graham."

Zondra grinned. "You know, maybe the reason everyone keeps saying that is because no one ever did."

Sarah raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Speaking of, _sort of_, what's happening with you and Morgan?"

Zondra grinned again. "We're sleeping together, but not, you know, sleeping-sleeping together."

"Not. Or: Not yet?"

Zondra's grin grew mysterious. "Yes."

Sarah raised her eyebrow again. "Fitting that this Tuesday end on that equivocal note."

She and Zondra walked together to the vending machines.

* * *

A/N: And so begins our ending.

Comments, thoughts? Hope to hear from you. I don't know if the story's good; I do know it's been hard work.

Chapter Theme: Elvis Costello, _Uncomplicated_

Thanks and continued thanks to Beckster1213, Chesterton, David Carner, and WvonB.


	33. Chapter 31: Go Ask Alice?

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

This chapter carries us into Book Three. A second prelude, an important conversation, important enough to merit its own chapter..

* * *

_They started slowly toward the elevator, Sarah's arm around Chuck's waist, steadying him. He smirked at her. "A cougar, right?"  
It took her a second. "My mascot? Yes, how did you know? The Intersect?"  
_"_I don't know. Hard to tell." _

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

**Go Ask Alice?**

* * *

Wednesday Morning

* * *

Light trickled into the hotel room, glowing warm around the almost-closed curtains, shafting softly between the curtain panels.

Sarah was atop Chuck, they were both trembling, panting, whispering. Breathless.

Though she had been happy to move moments before, impelled to move moments before, she did not want to move now.

She just wanted to _be, _be _there_, straddling her boyfriend, afloat on shudders and palpitations. Completely and unabashedly - _nakedly_ \- in love with Chuck Bartowski.

* * *

Beneath Sarah, Chuck hugged her more tightly against him, unwilling to sacrifice a single millimeter of skin-to-skin contact. He was alive with her - in her, he lived and moved and had his being. Sarah from horizon to horizon.

All Sarah.

He heard her inhale softly, her face against his neck. He heard her whisper his name. He felt her body relax, her weight settle wholly on him. She was asleep. In a moment, he was too.

* * *

A knock on the door.

Chuck's eyes opened. Sarah was still more or less on top of him, still asleep, though mumbling at the knock. Chuck kissed the end of her nose and got up. He checked through the door. It was his dad.

"Just a sec, Dad," Chuck said, loudly enough that his father could hear. Unfortunately, that was loud enough to awaken Sarah.

She sat up, the sheet sliding down her naked torso. Chuck stood and looked at her, contemplated her. She was aglow in the half-light of the room and the smile she gave him made him excited, grateful to be alive. His old depression was gone, vanished, scattered by her mussed halo of golden hair.

She laughed, "Chuck, your dad?"

"Oh, right," Chuck answered.

Sarah stood up and grabbed her robe and some of the clothes Zondra and Morgan brought to her. "I'm going to shower. I will let you two talk."

"No, Sarah, if you don't mind, I'd like you to be here, to hear all this. But I guess you better put something on."

She grinned at him. "And you said you wouldn't be saying that any more…"

"Believe me, Sarah…"

More knocking. "Chuck! Are you going to let me in?"

Sarah's grin turned into a smirk. "By the way, you might want to put something on too." Chuck realized he was standing there naked. Sarah let her eyes sweep the length of him. "Don't worry, you won't hear those words often from me, either."

Sarah went into the bathroom and Chuck found his discarded boxers and wrapped himself in a robe. He opened the door. Stephen was dressed, showered. The blood and bloody jeans were gone. He appeared a new man. But his hunched shoulders as he stepped into the room announced that he was a care-worn man.

"Dad, are you okay?"

His dad did not answer. Instead, he looked around the room. His eyes snagged on Sarah's things and, as he looked at them, he asked Chuck a question. "Sarah. Son, are you sure? I can understand the attraction…" a short, bitter laugh interrupted his comment, "...but, who she's been, what she's done - why do you believe she can be anything else?"

Before Chuck could reply, his dad faced him, hands up, palms out. "I'm not trying to second-guess you, Chuck. Carina told me a story yesterday that reoriented me where Sarah is concerned. I know we are only all here right now because she found you and helped you. But...but people can spend so much time with death that they can't find their way back to life. They can't get further than half-life."

Chuck made himself stop before he answered. He had spent some time in his dad's head - close enough - he knew this was as much about Chuck's mom, more maybe, than it was about Sarah. Chuck's dad might not be second-guessing Chuck, but he was second-guessing himself, his own fateful, long-ago choices.

"Dad, look, you don't know her. And I am just going to say this once: Sarah is not mom. I see the similarities, Dad. Believe me, the Intersect has screamed and lectured and chided me about her - all in your voice. So, odd as it sounds, please keep in mind that I have had this conversation - and had _enough_ of this conversation, already." Chuck realized his tone had grown edgy. He recalibrated. "Dad, I am so sorry about it all - things between you and Mom. I re-lived it with the Intersect, in dreams. I was sort of there too, Dad. In your head…"

His dad's eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I never intended you to have the damn thing, certainly not this way. But that's why I really came, to talk about the Intersect, to hear your story, the salient stuff, starting from when you first got it."

Sarah came out of the bathroom. She had washed her face, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, put on jeans and a blouse. Chuck's dad greeted her with a smile. "Good morning, Sarah."

If she had heard their conversation, she did not betray it. She smiled back at Stephen. Chuck was surprised to see a hint of embarrassment in the smile. "Good morning, Stephen. Sorry about the...mess." Sarah started quickly to straighten the bedclothes.

"Don't worry about it. I was young once and in love…I remember..." The room became more awkward for a moment. "Anyway...Sarah, I came to talk with Chuck about the Intersect."

She nodded. Stephen sat down in an armchair. Chuck was still standing.

"I asked Sarah to stay, Dad. I want her to know all this, hear it all. She and I really haven't...talked...about it yet."

"Okay, Chuck." Stephen grinned and sighed. "So, let me see if I can guess how this started. You downloaded the Intersect from an email Bryce sent you, right?"

"Yes."

"And the download probably took the form of your first episode…"

"Episode?"

"That's what…"

"Oh, right, that's what you called what I call a 'flash'."

"Hey, that's good, Chuck. Better than 'episode' anyway. That sounds straight-up crazy..."

Chuck shook his head, the past and the present uniting bizarrely. "Right, Dad, anyway, I woke up from the _download-episode-flash_ and you were here," Chuck pointed to his temple. "We talked...So, Dad, is the Intersect really AI, is it...intelligent? I had conversations with it and it seemed like you...and you _are_ intelligent."

"From time to time. - This is a discussion best left for another time, at our leisure, Chuck. There are _Chinese Room _problems here, and all sorts of worries about mindedness and embodiment and their interdependence. Let's just say that the Intersect _mimics_ intelligence, responds differentially to very complex stimuli, including your thoughts. How much mimicry becomes a reality? I don't know." He shrugged. "I should say too that I meant what I said yesterday. You changed the program and I lost full understanding of it. When I downloaded it, you were there - young you. Over time, you faded. But I was kind of in your head too, son." He smiled at Chuck, his eyes full of love and admiration. "You _are _special, Chuck."

Sarah was seated on the bed, listening, and she reached out and took Chuck's hand, tugged him toward her. He sat down.

"It's too damn weird, Dad. I've kind of been in your head and you've kind of been in mine…"

"Well, yes and no. What dad isn't in his son's head? What son isn't in his dad's? Our case was just a bit more...I don't know.._.literal_?"

"I guess," Chuck said, shaking his head uncertainly.

Stephen smiled, his eyes out-of-focus for a minute. "In a way, I guess it helps to make up for the time we missed...maybe a little…" As his eyes refocused he seemed to hear his own words and he looked guiltily at Chuck and Sarah. "Um, sorry, I know nothing can make up for what I did, your mom did, we did. I understand...really, I do...if you hate me or really want to hate me."

Chuck glanced at Sarah. She squeezed his hand, still holding it from tugging him to her side. "What Mom did, Dad, Costa Brava, I don't know how anyone comes back from that, exactly." He paused. Both he and Stephen swallowed. "And I admit I've had days when I hated you, and countless days when I wanted to hate you. But today is not one of either of those days."

Stephen brightened. Chuck went on. "That doesn't mean those days are gone, though, Dad. - But here's something I don't get. Why didn't the Intersect tell me I could change it? It, you, were all doom and gloom, _neural deterioration_…"

"The version of me you had was behind me, Chuck. If you understand what I mean. The information it gave you was true - at a time - but false or at least misleading by the time it gave that information to you. Contingent truths are true-at-a-time. Circumstances can falsify them as time passes. It was true earlier that "Stephen is in room 304'. It is false now; I'm in 214. Not every day is _today,_ if you see what I mean…"

"Today is not a date but it...indexes...a date?"

"Right."

"Besides, the Intersect has never 'processed' what you did to it. You changed it but it is not self-aware, not quite like that, at least not so as to allow it to acknowledge those changes. They manifest in it but are not conceptualized, represented in it. It sort of conceptualizes its capacity to copy - but that's all."

Sarah cleared her throat. "Sorry, Sarah," Stephen said, "Chuck and I have used to have talks like this from time to time, even when he was little. Enough philosophy, I guess" He refreshed his tone. "So, the Intersect gave you access to some of my memories, at first in the form of dreams?"

"Yes, a lot happened in dreams, early."

"Fascinating. It never worked like that for me. You see, Chuck, I may be your dad, but I can't change the Intersect. Only you seem to be able to do that. You were doing it from the beginning, interfacing with it in your sleep somehow. The Intersect copied me. You copied yourself into it. -So, eventually, my voice faded, right?"

Chuck nodded. "Yes, and my flashes have changed. I'm not even sure I am flashing anymore."

"You will, I predict, but it will no longer seem an event, cataclysmic, alien. It'll be more like _déjà vu_. External but still...familiar. If you stop and reflect, you should be able to sense the difference. At least that's my best guess."

"But is it still harming Chuck, Stephen?" Sarah asked, eager for this answer. "Is it safe for it to be in his head, even if he has changed it, assimilated it?"

Stephen exhaled, his face puzzled. "Well, he's had the Governor. That's helped as all this happened. Luckily, Bryce didn't know about it, didn't recognize it. And the changes and the assimilation, they will at least slow any damage even more. But I can't promise that the Intersect is not still damaging him, slowly. At the end of the day, even changed, assimilated, the Intersect isn't supposed to be in there. The brain, the mind, is a mystery, far more mysterious than our flat-earthed, Euclidean analogizing it to a computer recognizes. Neither the brain nor the mind is a computer and a computer is always going to be...an outsider...in here." He tapped his own temple.

"I think Chuck is safe _for now_, despite the pain and trouble the Intersect has caused. But I will start building a new removal device as soon as I can. The more I have thought about it, the more important building that has seemed."

The room was silent as each of the three fell into thought.

After a while, Chuck spoke up, his voice soft but determined. "I want to keep it until we...finish with Bryce, with Fulcrum. I have a funny feeling that the Intersect is going to be necessary to fight the Intersect. And, I, at any rate, am not done with Bryce. I am going to stop him, stop his plan. And I want him to know it was me, the _me_ he helped create, inadvertently, who stops him. I owe my old buddy. I'm going to make him do some serious second-guessing."

Sarah squeezed Chuck's hand again, looking at him. She saw the steely determination in his eyes. She thought of Casey saying that he would not want to be Bryce Larkin, having pissed off Frost and the Ice Queen.

_I wouldn't want to be Bryce Larkin, having pissed off the Intersect, after the Intersect has been thoroughly Chucked._

_Thoroughly Chucked. _Laughing silently to herself, she gave Chuck a quick kiss on the cheek.

* * *

A/N: What is Bryce's plan? What exotic, luxurious locale will our heroes visit next? Another barn, another cornfield, another _Tractor Supply_?

Tune in next time as the main action of Book Three commences. It will be a longer chapter. Hey, and drop me a review. If you are enjoying this and you haven't let me know, do. It'd be the right thing to do. Surely, it's not too much to ask?

Chapter Theme: REM, _Second Guessing_


	34. Chapter 32: Current and Backwater

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Book Three begins in earnest.

* * *

_After a while, Chuck spoke up, his voice soft but determined. "I want to keep it until we...finish with Bryce, with Fulcrum. I have a funny feeling that the Intersect is going to be necessary to fight the Intersect. And, I, at any rate, am not done with Bryce. I am going to stop him, stop his plan. And I want him to know it was me, the _me _he helped create, inadvertently, who stops him. I owe my old buddy. I'm going to make him do some serious second-guessing."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

**Current and Backwater**

* * *

Wednesday morning, elsewhere

* * *

Jill was unrelaxed in an Adirondack chair, seated on a sun-dappled porch.

A large tree stood next to the mountain cabin and it was creating the patterns of sunlight and shadow. The patterns struck Jill as emblematic of her life. A few circles of light in an otherwise encircling shadow.

She maddened herself - her incapacity to do what she knew she ought to do. She was like a young girl, dozing in an inner tube as life's current carried her downstream. She could not rouse herself enough to steer, change direction, cry for help. And the rapids were coming.

Why hadn't she said _no_ at any of a hundred moments? Roused herself to act?

She had pulled the trick on Bryce with the slides - her one _no _in all this time. Had it even done any good? Was Chuck still alive or did he just..._stop_...the way Bryce expected? She had no idea. Her hope was that Chuck was alive and somehow okay. _Somehow_.

Her reverie was interrupted by a coffee cup held in a manicured hand, bright red nails. Grimacing internally but forcing herself to smile, Jill gazed up into the face and blonde hair of Amy, Amy Saunders. As always, Amy was perky - even this morning. Her smile as she handed Jill the coffee was perky. The way she sat down in the empty Adirondack chair next to Jill, perky. The way she stretched herself in the chair - even that, _perky_, _stinking_ perky.

"God, I feel _so_ relaxed. Must be the mountain air…" Amy remarked, careful not to look at Jill as she spoke, her remark trailing off into airy suggestion.

Jill looked away. It was bad enough that she had spent the night in a room by herself while Bryce slept with Amy, but to have to be subjected, passively-aggressively, to Amy's perky _afterglow_, it was too much. _Too damn much. _Jill sipped her coffee bitterly.

Jill had suffered through this with Amy before. Bryce expected her to suffer through it without complaint, as he would say he had done when she had similar missions. But Amy was not a mission. She was a _choice. _

Amy had been a Fulcrum double-agent for a long time and anytime she and Bryce were together - not often, thankfully, for the sake of their CIA covers, and Jill's nerves - they slept together. Jill had suffered through this kind of thing, mission, whatever, more times than she was willing to count. Most recently, it had been with Walker and Beckman. Each of those had been its own special little hell for Jill, but especially Walker.

She tried not to think about Beckman at all, tried hard. But Bryce had recorded it all and Jill had been tasked with going through the audiotapes to make sure that everything Beckman said had been carefully notated, every revealed secret filed away. Jill shuddered.

"Are you cold, Jill? I left a sweater in the bedroom."

"No, Amy, I'm fine."

But Jill knew that Bryce was sneering inwardly at Beckman as he slept with her. That had not been true with Walker, although perhaps Bryce had expected it to go that way. .

While Jill was sure Bryce did not develop deep feelings for Walker, Bryce had not been immune to her as he was to Beckman - and as he was to Amy, though he slept with Amy at every chance. _I don't want to think about what that means. _No, Walker had been a surprise to Bryce. A complete surprise. He had been sure he understood her, _sure_, sure that he could manipulate her, that he could make her Fulcrum. Bryce had prepped - studied Walker, had cross-examined Amy about Walker, had subtly wheedled information out of Graham.

Bryce was so sure of himself and so sure of Walker.

And yet, despite all his preparation, all his smiling, persuasive power, he had not succeeded. He had been right about Walker's pervasive loneliness, her secreted misery. That much became clear. And Walker had been initially responsive, particularly to his early attempts to romance her. Bryce had, to his own surprise, been responsive to Walker, more than was normal with any mark. That had, in a perverse way, pleased Jill as it made her jealous. It had added tang to Bryce's frustration at failing with Walker, and that tang made the failure all the more satisfying to Jill. Bryce had been so sure - and Walker had been a surprise. Walker was not the woman Bryce reckoned her to be.

Jill had to admit that she did not know how to make sense of Walker. That was part of the reason that Ellie and Morgan's conviction that Walker was...involved...with Chuck irked Jill. She had no doubt a woman could find Chuck attractive; Jill certainly had. And certainly, Walker was a beautiful woman - a blonde of the sort Jill knew Chuck liked, even if he had never admitted it to Jill. But Chuck Bartowski falling for a killer? That was what Jill found unbelievable. Bryce could not imagine the killer falling for Chuck; Jill's puzzle was the reverse. If Chuck chose Walker, then perhaps he would have chosen Jill years ago, if she had just had the courage to tell him what was really happening, to face the prospect of rejection instead of choosing to hurt him so badly instead. _I am a coward, a shitty coward. _

Jill heard a sound. She looked up. Bryce had come padding out of the cabin. He had on only a pair of boxers. He walked past the two women in the chairs and leaned against the porch railing, facing them, a cup of coffee in his hand. Sitting the cup down, he stretched in a standing version of Amy's earlier seated stretch. He smiled at them both simultaneously. Jill stretched her lips into a smile, _streeetcheddd_, like stretching rubber bands.

Bryce practically crowed. "Good morning, ladies. Time for one more scouting trip, then we make our final preparations."

* * *

Wednesday morning, back in Bozeman...and in DC

* * *

Climbing the stairs from the second to the third floor, Stephen was silently listing the things he needed to construct a new Intersect removal device. He tried to keep his mind focused on the list, on the listing, because it wanted to move toward and settle upon Mary.

Stephen had told Chuck he would understand if Chuck hated him or wanted to hate him. Stephen understood that disjunction: he was standing precariously on the 'or'. Trying hard not to let his desire to hate her create actual hatred. He had been there, in actual hatred, for a long time, spurred on by the Intersect's fixation on Costa Brava, or, more accurately, on the earthquake of rage and pain Stephen had felt as he beat the bloody sand on that accursed beach.

He had meant what he said to Mary last night, in their only spoken exchange of the evening. She was his wife. Legally, still. But, despite his precarious posture on that 'or', she still felt like his wife. The truth was that he loved her. Still. After all the suffering, the long, lonely years, he saw her when he walked into the Meat Sciences lab and he jolted as he had when he turned to her in his lab so long ago. Loving her had been the worst mistake of his life. Probably. It had led him to all the other candidates for the title. But, _hell and misery,_ he could not stop making the mistake.

He got to 304 and fished out the keycard. He took a breath and rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the ache in them. They felt like they'd been hunched eternally. Quietly, not sure if Mary or Ellie might still be asleep, he used the keycard and opened the door.

As he stepped in, he saw Mary on one of the beds, shirtless, prone. Ellie was seated beside her, rubbing ointment on Mary's back.

_Mary's back_. Stephen stopped cold just as Ellie and Mary realized he had entered the room. Ellie lept up. Frost grabbed her blouse, and rolled over, holding it to cover herself.

"Dad!" Ellie yelled, angry, but not at him, at the surprise, the revelation. Mary's face closed quickly and she got off the bed, still covering herself with the blouse, and backed into the bathroom.

_The scars. _Stephen felt a pain like a toothache, but it filled his entire body. He rushed to the closed bathroom door and began to beat on it. "Mary, Mary, my God, Mary! What happened? Who, Mary? Who?"

"Dad, stop yelling. Stop pounding. It won't help; it'll just bring the staff up here." Ellie had put her hand on Stephen's back. She stepped around him, positioning herself between him and the door. Facing the door, she tapped gently on it. "Mom, come out. Tell him. Tell Dad, please."

A tense moment ended when the door opened. Frost was now wearing the blouse. She walked out of the bathroom, careful not to meet Stephen's gaze. She walked to the window, the one Stephen had been looking out of when they spoke briefly the night before.

Ellie and Stephen both turned as Frost walked by them and stationed herself at the window. They were looking at her. She was looking out the window.

"Mom, tell him. I mean it," Ellie's tone became less pleading, more commanding. "Tell him."

Mary closed her eyes. Keeping them closed, she obeyed. "I saw your reaction at the beach, Stephen. I was watching. Volkoff's binoculars. Your reaction...caused me to lose myself, react. In effect, my reaction made him doubt that I felt for him as I claimed I did, He never forgave me that moment, and, later, he started making me pay for it. He cut me. He told me it was for the Costa Brava." She opened her eyes and looked down at her own hands, waist-high but held out, examining their backs. "He was right, Stephen. Except he meant to punish me for one thing; I knew I was being punished for another. Later, after Bryce killed Volkoff…"

"What, Mary," Stephen asked, lost. "Larkin killed Volkoff?"

Mary nodded. "Larkin took Fulcrum by a _coup_. He shot Volkoff. That meant he inherited me as a prisoner, which he obviously took to be a perk of his new job. He eventually discovered the scars and my terror of new ones, and so he took up where Volkoff, where Tuttle, stopped."

Stephen made a sound, a soft, strangled sort of sound; he couldn't have named it. His hands rose and fell, rose and fell again. Impotently. Then he sat down on the bed, sank on it, and put his head in his hands, his fingers pulling on his own hair, trying to use the pain to focus himself. "Larkin was...cutting you while he was drinking with me?" He made the sound again - he could not stop himself. Tears followed it this time.

"Yes, I guess," Frost replied, trying not to react to Stephen's audible distress. "Interestingly, he never mentioned you to me, Stephen. And you were right: Bryce did learn that bit of poetry from me. I didn't ever explain it to him - but, when he...when he…," she shrugged, "It helped with the pain, the terror...I intended to recite it silently, only to myself, but I must have slipped, said it aloud…"

"Mom, Dad...Explain this to me, please. What did you do to Dad on that beach, Mom? What did you think...Volkoff or Tuttle or whoever the hell he is...or was...was rightly punishing you for?"

* * *

Morgan woke to a hand searching slowly beneath the covers. The hand found the top of Morgan's pajama bottoms and inserted itself beneath the bottom's top. The hand stopped there.

Morgan was afraid to breathe. Zondra had not explained yesterday's lingerie show and Morgan had been too afraid to ask, too worried that it was a test he did not understand and was bound to fail. Zondra's hand was so warm.

"Morgan, are you awake?"

"If I say 'No', will you believe me?"

"Ummm, no. Spy, remember? I can tell you are awake. Saying 'No' won't deceive me." Zondra giggled. _Giggled_?

Morgan put his hand on Zondra's and removed it from his bottom's top. He rolled over. Zondra was already on her side, facing him. He realized she was wearing the lingerie she had shown him yesterday. He could see the candy-apple red straps on her otherwise bare shoulders. The rest of it, of her, was covered.

"Zondra, I don't understand what's happening. You must know that I am very, very, very attracted to you. But I am sure that's just how every day goes for you. Countless guys very, very, very attracted to you."

Zondra did not reply. She gazed at him patiently, waiting. For him. Silently.

"But you know what? I don't care about that. I just care about my attraction to you. And yours to me. And I am going to do something about it." He reached over and put his hand around Zondra's neck and pulled her mouth to his. He kissed her and she kissed him back. When the kiss finished, Morgan pulled back - but he did not walk the kiss back or his preludial speech. He looked into Zondra's eyes. They were dancing merrily.

"It's about damn time, Morgan." This time she pulled his mouth to hers.

* * *

Chuck had been dozing when he heard Sarah open the door. He heard Sarah exclaim: "Ellie!" He jumped up. Ellie was hugging Sarah, weeping onto Sarah's shoulder.

* * *

Brown had spent several hours investigating the financial records he had been sent. Graham's records, his off-the-book records. They were, as far as Brown could tell, genuine. Years of misappropriation. Years of personal profit from Agency - and agents' - actions. All there in black and white. Brown had not been able to figure out who sent the records to him. But the fact that he could not find a fingerprint was as good as a fingerprint. And Orion had to have known that.

The question now was what to do about the records. Beckman was done at the NSA, already vacating her office. What would it do to the Intelligence community in DC if Graham were to quit almost immediately after Beckman quit?

Brown knew he could use the records to force Graham to retire. If Graham refused, Brown could make the records public - and that would be far worse for Graham.

Brown was dithering, trying to figure it out, wishing his father were still alive so that he could call him to talk, when his computer beeped. He pushed aside the sandwich and chips he had been eating as his lunch and looked at the screen. _The Good Old Book of Faces! America's volunteer amateur surveillance network._ There, in the background of a Facebook post, a photograph of a little boy eating a hotdog, stood Bryce Larkin.

Brown checked the location, although his eyes told him all he needed to know. _What the hell is Larkin doing there_? Brown sent a text to Sarah. He would decide about Graham later, once he figured out what Larkin was up to.

* * *

Casey was in the hotel lobby, using the public computer there. He was reading the first of the news stories about General Diane Beckman's unexpected and immediate retirement from the NSA. The article had little in it that Casey did not know. It was primarily a retrospective on Beckman's distinguished career. _It was that, distinguished, impressive. What happened, General? _Set on the page beside the story, there was a photograph of Beckman as she left NSA headquarters. Casey leaned in. Behind Beckman, off a bit to her side, was Roan Montgomery, CIA spy, and Beckman's rumored lover. _Hell, he is her lover. You know that, John._ Montgomery was not among those named beneath the photograph. That he was there at all though struck Casey as significant.

Casey had known - at any rate, had justifiably believed - that the rumors about Beckman and Roan were true. He had seen them together a couple of times in out of the way spots in DC. He had been in her office when it was clear that Roan had called, and he had seen the change in Beckman as she answered. Casey knew that she, like he, was alone - more or less - by choice. But he also knew from the change in her when Roan called that she was not any more happy about her choice than Casey was. Perhaps that was the reason why she allowed Casey to remain in the office when she took those calls. She never named Roan; nothing was said that gave much away; but it was her tone - her phone voice gone, her military bearing slipping - that gave away what she had to know she was giving away.

But there had been none of those calls in a long time. And there had been that strange period - two months or so - when he had hardly seen or heard from Beckman and during which she seemed...strange. Jumpy. Flighty. Beckman flighty. Casey was not sure, but a suspicion began to form in his mind. _Someone else? _But who? Beckman was soldierly caution personified. She would not have made any silly mistake…

Casey clicked off the computer. Silly mistakes. Was he making one? If he was, he had to admit it was already too late. Carina had been right about him. He did want her, and not just in a bed. He did want her there. _God, yes! _But he wanted her in his life. The problem was that he had no life. He had been a once-upon-a-time Marine and then a full-time spy and part-time killer. He seemed to himself a mere shell-casing, spent. What did he have to offer a woman like Carina, younger, so much...livelier? Still, she had indicated that his romancing of her had created an effect.

And Carina was right about something else. He had not set out to romance her and he never did so deliberately, but every decision he made since he entered her apartment in Seattle - succumbing to her seduction, his effort to attend to her and please her, not himself, his inhalation of her perfume, his agreeing to take her with him to follow Chuck and Sarah. None of that was in character for John Casey, an NSA terminator. It was all in character for a man in love.

If he was honest, he'd been in love with her since the first time. Prague. He had never been able to get her out of his mind. She made him crazy. She still did. It was clear that she was making him no promises. If they both lived through this, she was likely to return to her, the real her, and go back to her DEA life and her nightlife, however busy exactly that was. Casey put his hands on the desk and sighed. He would live through that if it happened. If she was going to have her best chance at happiness if they were not together, Casey would face his resulting unhappiness. It was worth it. The last few days had been worth it. He felt like a man again, he felt again. He was in a fight where the bad guy was really and damn truly a bad guy. A clean fight. It was all more than he had hoped for, wished for, even a few weeks ago.

* * *

Mary looked out the window but she saw only Costa Brava, Stephen beating the sand, wailing in soul-shocked anguish.

Her children alone in Burbank. She had known as Stephen wailed on the beach that he would not go home again. She had destroyed them all.

She deserved all she had gotten. All the suffering. Volkoff, Bryce. Now this, Stephen's aching immobility. The ache reached her as she stood by the window. When this ended, when Chuck and Ellie and Stephen were safe, Mary would go. She had a certain skill set; she had kept her strength and flexibility while imprisoned. The scarring was skin deep, deep enough, but not debilitating, after all. She could keep body and soul together, given how little soul she had left, after all she had done, after all the pain, after all the countless days in the dark.

She would die in the dark - but unchained. It was the best she could hope for. More than she deserved. There was a knock on the door. Stephen did not move. Mary turned to the door.

* * *

Sarah knocked on the door of 304.

After a moment, Frost opened it. Her face could have been plywood. No emotion showed. Behind her, Stephen was seated on the bed, his head in his hands. He looked like he was frozen in that position, as if Rodin had decided to add another statue, _La Victime_, as a companion to _Le Penseur._ Sarah's heart hurt for them both - and for Ellie and Chuck, comforting each other downstairs.

"Chuck and I are going to take Ellie to get Devon. His flight was delayed a bit. Probably a good thing. She's...upset."

Frost nodded. Stephen still did not move. "I just got a text from Brown. He spotted Bryce…" Stephen looked up, his eyes burning, "...in the Black Hills. At Mount Rushmore. As soon as we get back, we should gather folks and see if we can figure this out. Brown is trying to as well."

"Okay, Sarah. I'll gather the troops." Frost left the room, her relief at doing so obvious as she passed Sarah.

Stephen looked at Sarah. "Be sure, Sarah. Be sure you want my son. He doesn't want this life. And he's stronger than me; he won't let it trap him, destroy him."

Sarah tried to answer but no words came. She walked to Stephen and put her hand on his shoulder and stood with him in silence. He looked up. "Go, I know they're waiting. I hope Devon's feelings for my daughter will survive meeting her parents."

Sarah smiled gently and shrugged. "Mine for Chuck did."

Stephen laughed bitterly but genuinely. "Thanks for that, Sarah."

* * *

Brown had been sending the feed from the bug in the mole's office to a listening program he had created, a variant of one the CIA used. It had been tracking every audible word in the office since Brown hid the bug. So far, nothing had shown up. A few words or phrases had caused the alert to flash, but they turned out to be nothing suspicious.

Frustrated, Brown called up the program to look at it. He had been able to find nothing that led him to Mount Rushmore, that would lead Larkin there. It seemed unlikely that Larkin was there to perpetrate a simple terrorist attack. No, whatever Larkin was doing there, it would involve the Intersect.

Sarah had called Brown after his earlier text and caught him up on what was going on. Brown was still grappling with the idea that the Intersect was in Bartowski's head and that Larkin had a viable version of it now.

Just as Brown called up the program, its alert flashed. Brown checked the conversation that had set it off. This time the mole said something suspicious. Brown knew what it meant.

_Oh. Oh, shit._ _But how? Why? _

He still was not sure precisely what Larkin was doing, or how he would do it, but he thought he knew the target.

Or, maybe, targets.

* * *

A/N: We are on our way now, heading for our final showdown.

I was going to press on to the end but responses have slowed, so I will too. I intend to finish the story but it will be a while before the final chapters arrive. Other things to do. Until next time.

Thoughts, reactions? How about a review. Love to hear from you!

Chapter Theme: Brian Eno, _Julie With..._


	35. Chapter 33: King's Gambit

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Greetings from Ohio. Wrote a little of this before I started my drive, wrote the rest in my head as I drove. Typed it up.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

**King's Gambit**

* * *

Wednesday, Afternoon

* * *

Bryce stood in the main room of the cabin.

Like everyone else in the room, he was wearing black fatigues. Amy was standing on his right side, Jill on his left. Before him, seated on couches, armchairs and fold-out chairs, were seven hand-picked Fulcrum agents, all male. The heavy dining room table was covered in weapons and ammunition, Bryce had just finished going over the plan one more time, using a blueprint taped to the interior front wall. The men knew the drill - they had been practicing in a physical mock-up, running simulations, in the Northern California hills.

There was one serious kink in the plan. General Stanfield was supposed to be dead, vaporized in an explosion in Mt. Shasta City days ago, his place to have been taken by his successor, a man groomed by Volkoff and put in place long ago, carefully retained and cultivated by Bryce. He was to have been the man on the inside.

Bryce wanted Stanfield gone regardless, since he was opposed to policies Bryce wanted, policies Bryce believed Fulcrum could manipulate.

Instead, Stanfield would be there, part of the entourage, and the inside man would not. A kink, a complication, to be sure, but not insuperable. Bryce was nothing if not flexible. He could cope with the complication. He would rather not have to have made an attack on the location - it would have been easier just to be shown in after the fact, with everything and everyone ready. But it would still work and who knew when he would have the chance again?

Bryce had been holding forth on Fulcrum as he ended, the bright new day that would begin once the mission was completed, and he could tell the men believed. It was always good to surround yourself with true believers. No one was as easy to manipulate as the man who thought he was doing the right thing. Bryce was a true believer too - but in himself, not in any stupid mantra about God and Country. God and Country could go hang; Bryce wanted power, pure and simple. His father had taught him that was the only real currency. Everything else was make-believe, bilge water that sheep were only too happy to suck down, as long as it was flavored with martial music, parades, and talk of American Exceptionalism.

_What a crock of shit_. Bryce believed in Bryce Exceptionalism. That was the only creed he took seriously. '_I' is a palindrome. The same forward and backward, the only letter in the alphabet worth serving. Not USA... _

_There's no 'u' in 'Bryce'. But there is in 'Chuck'. Or there was._

Chuck had screwed things up with Stanfield. Bryce was sure of that now. Chuck had also tightened Fulcrum's finances. The drug bust in Seattle had claimed ready money Bryce was counting on, money Smithies would have provided. Bryce was sure that was Chuck now too. _All on a damn trajectory toward Outlook, Bozeman. Intersect trajectory._ But the finances, like Stanfield, a mere complication - and Bryce had a workaround. Bryce had a fortune in off-shore accounts available, Volkoff money, and other monies. It was more trouble but he would fund things, then pay himself back with interest. Lots of interest. Fulcrum's money was really his anyway.

Bartowski had paid for his interference with Bryce's plan. The mindless chump was doubtless cold on a table back in the Meat Sciences lab, himself now nothing but meat. Meat for science.

Bryce was genuinely annoyed that Ellie Bartowski and Morgan Grimes had escaped, and annoyed that he was unsure where they were, but they were who they were - a doctor and a bearded clown. They would not matter. They would have been useful later, particularly Ellie. She might have been worth keeping around, forced to help Fulcrum with the new Intersect. That would have been ironic - Bryce's lip curled as he thought of that word and his final encounters with Chuck - and it might have been interesting to find out just how far he could push Ellie, whether she was made of the leathery stuff her mother was..._But, no matter. It was all going to work out. _Before Thursday, it would all be over.

Bryce opened the floor for questions. But no one seemed eager to ask any.

* * *

Devon had been nonplussed since he emerged from the concourse at the airport. Ellie had run to him and hugged him - that had not surprised him. But she had made no sound, said no word; she had clung to him and would not let go.

Chuck stepped forward and offered his hand. Devon shook it while still holding Ellie. Beside Chuck was the woman Ellie had told him about, Sarah Walker. She came forward a moment later and put her hand on Ellie's shoulder.

The intimacy of the gesture struck Devon. Ellie loosened her grip on Devon and gave him a kiss. She turned and looked at Sarah, nodding, and some silent communication passed between the women.

"Devon, this is Sarah Walker," Ellie said quietly.

Devon put out his hand. "Wow, the CIA…"

Ellie cut him off. "She's Chuck's girlfriend."

Devon shook Sarah's hand. "Awesome." He glanced at Chuck and saw Chuck looking at Sarah. _So that's how it is. The Chuckster's a goner._

"We need to get to our hotel, Devon. My mom and dad are there."

Devon froze. "What did you say, babe?"

Ellie gave him a slow sad smile. "I'll explain in the car. Explain everything."

Devon went ahead with Ellie. Behind him, he heard Chuck ask Sarah quietly, "So, 'babe'?"

He heard Sarah make a sound, musing. "_Hhhmmmmnnnoo_. No, don't think so."

"No pet names?"

"I didn't say that, but not that one. For one thing, it's taken; it might get confusing in Burbank."

"You mean - like in the future?"

Devon heard Sarah's soft chuckle. "Exactly like that."

* * *

Brown needed to talk to Sarah.

He was sure now about Bryce's target while still unsure of how Bryce was planning his attack. He had arranged for a CIA 'copter in Bozeman and he had just texted Sarah about that. But he needed to explain it all to her. A few minutes more...

He was so involved in his task that he did not hear anything. So tired he did not hear anything. He felt it though, a sudden pinprick in his neck after a quick sound, almost like an air puff test at an optometrist's office, or someone spitting. Brown's vision blurred. His hands went still. _Damn it. _He hit a key on his computer, blanking it out.

Brown saw the mole reflected in his computer screen blurrily, then he slumped forward, his forehead on his keyboard.

* * *

Manoosh Depak stood behind Brown, a smug smile on his face, an all-plastic Fulcrum-issue tranq gun in his hand.

Depak had found the bug in his office, realized how it had gotten there. Brown was no longer a problem. Depak hid the tranq gun beneath a pile of Brown's papers. No one would find him for hours, maybe longer. Fulcrum would win. Larkin had promised Depak he would be rewarded for his service when Fulcrum won. That Fleming was now..._out-of-service_...made Depak even more important.

Brown was an old, crippled fool, the kind of man Fulcrum would not tolerate. The kind of man the future could not tolerate, like Brown's father. Conscience was a trick played by the weak to keep themselves in power. A sop for those who could not be remorseless. It was time, past time, for the strong to take their rightful place.

Everything was ready. Depak could oversee it all from a DC Fulcrum location nearby. Larkin had only to upload the Intersect and then…

Brown had seriously underestimated Depak. Seriously.

On a whim, Depak yanked Brown's sweater off the back of Brown's chair and put it on. Too big. He straightened it on himself and left the office, carefully closing the door.

There was a spring in his step as he headed out of Langley. _Leave as an underling, return as Overlord. _

_Overlord..._Manoosh rolled that word around in his head. _Overlord. Not bad for an MIT dropout. Not that the CIA knows about that - fake diploma and all. Overlord._

* * *

Mary was in her room. Stephen was not - she was not sure where he had gone. Perhaps he had already headed to Chuck and Sarah's room downstairs, where Mary had told folks to gather. Mary had come back upstairs to take some aspirin. Her head was killing her. She had not really been able to sleep knowing Stephen was asleep in the same room.

She had spent the night tossing and turning in the bed she shared with Ellie, half the time desperate to climb into Stephen's bed and the remembered warmth of his arm, half the time desperate to flee from the room and outside into the dark. The lack of sleep and the earlier conversation with Stephen had her head throbbing.

She dumped several ibuprofen tablets into her palm, not even counting. She threw them into her mouth and picked up one of the upside-down glasses on the sink and filled it with water, washing them down.

She had just swallowed the pills when she heard a soft knock on the door. She opened it, expecting Ellie and Devon, but Zondra was standing there.

"Um, hi, Fr...Mary, is Ellie here?"

"No, Zondra. She's not gotten back from the airport. You needed her?"

Zondra smiled self-consciously. "Yeah, I...uh, I wanted to talk to her about Morgan."

Mary, despite her headache, despite everything, smiled back. "Well, my Morgan file is out-of-date, but it is rather deep. Do you think I could help you?"

Zondra gave Mary a frank, appraising stare. "Maybe. Maybe, in fact, you are just the person I need to talk to."

Mary stepped aside. Zondra walked in and sat down in the armchair. Mary walked right up to her and leaned down slightly. "Before we talk Morgan - maybe as part of our talk about Morgan actually, I need you to tell me something. Did Langston Graham send you to terminate Ellie as your Red Test."

Zondra glanced around the room nervously. "So...you know about that. Yes, he did. But I didn't. I mean, obviously, I didn't. I couldn't. I thought I could. I thought I wanted what doing it successfully would get me…"

"And that was?"

"Sarah's job, in effect. I don't mean that I would've forced her out, only that I thought I would be a new...Enforcer."

"And you thought you wanted that?" Mary leaned down more and Zondra slid back into her armchair. She took a moment.

"I did. But I now know I didn't. I have...killed, but I am no executioner."

Mary stared at her hard for a long time in absolute silence, motionless. Finally, she blinked. "No, Zondra, I don't think you are. Thank God." Mary stepped toward the bed and sat on its side. "Good for you."

"That's what Sarah said."

"So you two have patched things up?"

"Yes. Sarah's not Sarah anymore."

Mary straightened. "What do you mean?"

Zondra shrugged almost imperceptibly. "She loves your son."

"Does she really?"

"Yes," Zondra said, nodding, "she does."

"What would you say if I told you that although she sincerely believes she loves Chuck - even uses that word - she really does not know what it means, and so doesn't love him?"

Zondra's face colored. "I'd say that's one hell of a mouthful - and dead wrong."

Mary leaned toward Zondra again, although she stayed seated on the bed. "How could you possibly know?"

"Because I knew her before. If that Sarah had told me she was in love, but she was still that Sarah, I might have thought, well, all that you just said. But I guess...I mean...I think I'm beginning to see...that love changes people. Not like an itch changes people, a change that gets added to who they are but otherwise changes nothing about them, or like the change when you paint your nails or dye your hair. Really to love is to...change, all over, everywhere, inside. To become a new person while you are still yourself..." Zondra twisted her lips to the side, not sure she was making sense.

Mary listened and felt her own face color. _A lesson I learned too late. _She nodded at Zondra and they sat looking at each other.

"I had a Red Test, you know, Zondra." Mary did not pause for a response; she just went on. "It was in Bordeaux. Early in my career, before I met Stephen. The man was a US diplomat selling secrets to terrorist groups. The Director then - long before Graham - gave me the assignment. I did it.

"The man was young. He had a wife, kids. I shot him in the head in a cobblestone alleyway and I walked away. I never let myself reckon with it. I just did it and then it was done, past tense, unchangeable - and I moved on. Moved on. But I came to know something about myself that day: I was an executioner." Mary felt her eyes become so intense Zondra could not meet her gaze.

"I thought I could live with that self-knowledge until I fell in love with Stephen. Then it began to haunt me. But it came home to me, materialized, the day I gave birth to Ellie. The doctor put her on my chest - she was crying loudly, of course," Mary gave a quick, wry, fond grin, "and Stephen looked down at her and then at me and my first thought was: _I am a killer._ I loved her. God, did I love her. But it all felt like a cosmic joke, a black cosmic joke. A joke on Stephen and on Ellie and later, on Chuck too. They were innocent, and I…I couldn't be anyone's wife, anyone's mother. My love wasn't enough..." Mary stopped. She got up and went into the bathroom. She turned on the faucet, splashed water on her face and then toweled her face dry. She walked back into the room and sat down on the bed again.

"I apologize, Zondra. It's been a...difficult time for me." Mary offered. "So, how can I help with Morgan? Or did...all that..._disqualify _me?"

Zondra gave Mary a generous, sympathetic smile, leaned forward, and put her hand on Mary's arm. "No, I think it _qualified _you. He'll text me when the others arrive. We have a minute. Why don't you tell me about him when he was little, when you knew him?"

Mary smiled back, her smile strained but real. "Morgan showed up at my house after school one day. A bully had been mistreating Chuck - and Morgan stepped in between them. The bully blacked both Morgan's eyes for interfering. That made Chuck so mad that he actually hit the bully and sent him running away with a bloody nose." Mary shook her head.

"Morgan's mom...she worked all the time, so Chuck came home with this little raccoon-faced kid in tow. Chuck told me what happened, and I cleaned the boys up and made them Rice Krispy treats. I make a mean Rice Krispy treat. Morgan loves them…"

Zondra was lost in the story already and Mary could see that. She let herself get lost in it too.

* * *

Sarah had tried several times to get Brown to answer his phone. No luck. Everyone except Mary and Zondra was crowded into the room. Sarah gave up and put her phone on the nightstand. As she did, Mary and Zondra came in together. Sarah was unsure what to make of that.

Zondra went and sat on the arm of the armchair Morgan was in. Mary shut the door and leaned against it. Stephen glanced her way and she glanced his, but neither acknowledged the glance of the other.

Sarah began. "Everyone, this is Devon." Devon, seated cross-legged on the floor beside Ellie, smiled and waved. "Devon, this is everyone. We can do individual introductions later. Right now, we need to try to figure some things out and I don't think we have much time. I can't get in touch with Brown, but he has a helicopter waiting to take us to Mount Rushmore - if that's where we are really going. Brown found out that Bryce was there. But after Brown's text about the helicopter, I heard nothing more. Chuck and I have talked. We're afraid to wait, but we don't want to head off in the wrong direction.

"So here's the first question: does anyone have any idea why Bryce would be at Mount Rushmore? What, other than tourism or patriotism would take Bryce there?"

The room was quiet. Then Zondra asked a question: "What day is it again?"

Chuck: "Wednesday, why?"

"Is it the last Wednesday of the month?"

"Yes."

"Oh. That's not...He wouldn't…"

Sarah broke into Zondra's stammer. "Z, what is it?"

"A while ago, some years, right after the CATs...finished," Zondra glanced from Sarah to Carina, sitting nearby, "I ended up on...bullshit duty. I got re-assigned for a while, loaned out to the Secret Service. I don't think that what I did ever made it into my files - probably only the re-assignment itself. Basically, Graham gave me to the Secret Service for a while. Punishment. Anyway, I got stuck babysitting one of the generals on the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

Devon looked at her in surprise. "That doesn't sound like 'bullshit duty'. That sounds awesome."

Zondra shrugged and smiled. "I was a spy. I wanted to be doing my job, spying, not someone else's job.

"So, anyway, I ended up making a trip to Mount Rushmore with that general. Twice a year, the final Wednesday of a month (it rotates), the Joint Chiefs of Staff meet to..._wargame_, I guess...It's top-secret, hidden. They 'go dark' for a couple of days and work through computer simulations of enemy military or terrorist attacks. It starts on Wednesday, ends late Thursday. In between, they aren't in contact with anyone. The place they conducted the wargaming was Mount Rushmore."

Morgan put his hand gently on Zondra's leg. Sarah saw Zondra's quick, pleased reaction. _So, 'not yet' has become 'yes'. _"_On_ Mount Rushmore?" Morgan scrunched his face in an effort to picture it.

"No, Morgan, _in_ Mount Rushmore." Morgan nodded vacantly, mouthing the word, 'in'.

"Evidently, the original designers, artists, whatever, hollowed out an area inside Abraham Lincoln's head - the government requested it. No one else knew about it. For years, it was used for storage of God knows what."

Morgan grabbed her arm. "Maybe it was like that place at the end of the first Indiana Jones, you know, where they stowed the Ark of the Covenant."

Zondra laughed. "No, Morgan, not like that - at least I don't think so. Even Lincoln's head's not that large." Smiling indulgently at him, she turned back to Sarah.

"Later, much later, during the Cold War, the area was expanded into a backup nuclear control center. There's a hidden elevator that provides access." Zondra finished. "All the equipment's now state-of-the-art and it is one of the sites for the JCS wargames."

Morgan had listened carefully, Sarah saw, but when Zondra stopped he looked at her, everybody. "All that - _inside_ the head of the Great Emancipator?" Zondra nodded and Morgan shook his head. "Weird."

Sarah looked around the room: silent agreement.

Chuck stood up. As Zondra talked, he had a strange feeling, like he knew what she was going to say. "Tell us more about the games, Zondra."

"I don't know much. All computer simulation stuff. Big screens all around the main room, the giant conference table."

"Larkin is going to download the Intersect into the Joint Chiefs of Staff…" Stephen said it to himself but still loudly enough for the room to hear.

Carina looked at Stephen from her seat beside Casey. "But why? I mean - it'd create quite a ruckus, getting to them up there, in Lincoln's head. And, the ruckus would clue folks in, right?"

"Unless there was no ruckus. Unless Bryce thought he could pull it off without detection. Not just from outside but from the inside…"

Sarah looked at Chuck, who was staring into space. "What do you mean?"

"What if he thought he could get in without making any noise, get the Intersect into the generals, and get away without anyone knowing he had done it?"

"Tranqs of some kind?" Casey asked, but went on.

"Yes," Chuck nodded slowly, still staring.

Mary: "But even if he could - the generals would know they'd been...tinkered with...right? I mean, even a viable Intersect would take time to assimilate, integrate, right? They'd know they were flashing, and how would that help Larkin?"

Stephen shot a questioning glance at his wife. "Could Larkin have known about Volkoff, I mean about Tuttle...wait," he slowed, his tone apologetic, "...of course he could. Fleming had my old journals. Nothing there was spelled out, in the open, but he could have worked it out. He might even have..._shit_."

Morgan looked at Stephen. "C'mon, Mr. B, share with the class? I'm lost again."

"What if Larkin is going to use the Intersect to implant an identity in the Chiefs, one that he could turn off and on. He could download it, implant it, turn it off, and the JCS would leave, not knowing that they were, in effect, Larkin's puppets."

"But that failed...failed miserably...with Tuttle," Mary spoke softly but urgently. Half the room still looked lost, Morgan particularly.

"Yes, it did, and that's…" - looking at Mary - "that's on me. But Larkin has an Intersect that has been made viable by Chuck. It would just be a matter of changing the way the download went, and then adding the identity in. Fleming could have had all that ready, already, before Larkin killed him. Hell, if Larkin killed him - and if we are right - then Fleming must have had it ready. Still, Larkin would need someone way beyond him technically to make sure it all worked…"

"Well, Dad, he's here, so let's go ahead and assume he has someone."

Stephen nodded. "Right." He went on in a thoughtful, ominous tone. "So, Larkin breaches the facility, Lincoln's head, quietly, Intersects the Chiefs, leaves, and then he can in effect control the head of each branch of the military. And they have access to the Secretary of Defense, to the President. Jesus…what kind of disaster couldn't he create"

"But are we sure the Intersect is _viable?_" Morgan asked. Everyone looked at him. "Well, I am part of the 'we'."

Zondra leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Yes, you sure are, Snuggles." Morgan beamed at her. She re-beamed at him.

Silence. Silence. Everyone stared at Morgan and Zondra, particularly Sarah and Carina. Sarah eventually shifted her gaze to Chuck. Chuck looked at her, one eyebrow going up in question. He mouthed "'Snuggles?'" She shook her head _no _but smiled at him.

Stephen answered Morgan. "Well, Ellie checked him out; medically, as far as she can tell, he is fine. Larkin showed him the 13 slides, so…"

"Twelve," Chuck interjected.

"Twelve?" Stephen asked, turning from Morgan to his son. "Twelve?'

"The Intersect - or I - counted. I saw 12"

Stephen went white. "No, Morgan," he said, still looking at Chuck, "the Intersect is not viable."

Sarah was immediately at Chuck's side. She took his hand. Holding it, she faced Stephen in demand. "What do you mean, Stephen?"

Stephen glanced down. Mary crossed the room to join them, standing on Chuck's other side. Ellie and Devon were now standing. "The slides are...sequenced. The last one is crucial. It...It ties together the changes the other twelve created. Stabilizes and finishes the assimilation. Without it, those changes will unravel. I lied to Bryce about them, as I said. I told him that if he used all thirteen, eventually the person would die from the too-complete assimilation. Instead, it was what guaranteed successful assimilation, all 13."

Mary reached out and put her hand on Chuck's shoulder. "What's that mean for our son, Stephen?"

Stephen ran his hands through his hair. His shoulders hunched. "I'm not sure...I don't know to what extent Chuck can himself compensate for the final slide. The slides speed assimilation. I created them to make it possible for someone to assimilate the Intersect faster. Given what Chuck told me, he had already assimilated much of it before Larkin used the slides. But the Chiefs - they aren't Chuck, they can't compensate - the Intersect will likely..._unravel_ in their minds, in their heads. It will unravel _them_ with it. Larkin won't create puppets, he'll create dead men. Chuck may be able to hold it together on his own, despite being a slide short; they won't."

"Can we call in the cavalry, you know, soldiers or someone?" Devon asked.

Mary answered. "We shouldn't expose Chuck or the Intersect more than is necessary. The endgame for all of this is complicated enough without the entire US military getting interested." Her voice was determined. "And we already have a chopper waiting; we can be there before anyone else. I think we _are_ the cavalry. We've got to stop him." Mary's voice turned acidic. "He doesn't get to hurt anyone else. Larkin doesn't get to hurt anyone else. Ever." She looked at her husband, her eyes aflame. "Let's go, Stephen, this is the ripple effect of Volkoff, of Tuttle. My mission. Still. I want to finish my mission, and then I want…" She stopped.

Stephen looked at her expectantly, but she dropped his eyes and changed topics. "How much of a risk is this for Chuck?'

Sarah nodded her head, seconding the question, her heart pounding as it had been for the last few minutes. Indeed, he had only barely been able to make out the question above the noise of it.

Stephen looked ashamed, small, for a moment. "To be honest, I just don't know. I don't fully understand Chuck's relationship to the Intersect. I created something I don't understand."

Chuck grinned ruefully. "Me or the Intersect?"

"Both. And Ellie"

Stephen turned to Zondra. "So, no way to get word to them, the Chiefs, inside Lincoln's head?"

"No, they really do go dark. Part of the exercise. Larkin chose well."

"Okay." He sought out Carina. "Do you think you can take Ellie, Devon, and Morgan back to the Meat Sciences lab?" Zondra started to protest but Stephen went on. "We need Zondra's knowledge at Rushmore. I saw some devices in the lab I can scavenge to create a suppression device, I think. It's a stop-gap, but better than nothing, if we need it."

Carina glanced at Casey and they traded a nod. Then Carina gave Zondra a significant look. "Yes," she said, "I can do that."

Mary turned to look at everyone, her back straight, her hands fisted. "Then let's get our things and get going. Larkin's going to get a surprise." Mary's eyes frosted over, her voice became a grave. "A bad one."

* * *

A/N: Brrrr. Anyone else feel that?

Thoughts? Drop me a response!

Chapter Theme: Devo, _Race of Doom_


	36. Chapter 34: (Dis)(Re)Orientations

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

_Bryce believed in Bryce Exceptionalism. That was the only creed he took seriously. _'I' is a palindrome. The same forward and backward, the only letter in the alphabet worth serving. Not USA...  
There's no 'u' in 'Bryce'. But there is in 'Chuck'. Or there was.

_Brown saw the mole reflected in his computer screen blurrily, then he slumped forward, his forehead on his keyboard. _

_Larkin had promised Depak he would be rewarded for his service when Fulcrum won. That Fleming was now..._out-of-service_...made Depak even more important. _

"_And we already have a chopper waiting; we can be there before anyone else. I think we are the cavalry. We've got to stop him." Mary's voice turned acidic. "He doesn't get to hurt anyone else. Larkin doesn't get to hurt anyone else. Ever." She looked at her husband, her eyes aflame. "Let's go, Stephen, this is the ripple effect of Volkoff, of Tuttle. My mission. Still. I want to finish my mission, and then I want…" She stopped._

_Stephen sought out Carina. "Do you think you can take Ellie, Devon, and Morgan back to the Meat Sciences lab?" Zondra started to protest but Stephen went on. "We need Zondra's knowledge at Rushmore. I saw some devices in the lab I can scavenge to create a suppression device, I think. It's a stop-gap, but better than nothing, if we need it."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

**(Dis)(Re)Orientations**

* * *

Chuck, Sarah, Zondra, Casey, Stephen, and Mary were sardined in Casey's car, everyone sitting bodkin. Chuck was not complaining. Sarah was turned, her body pressed tight against his, one arm around his shoulders, the other reaching up to his ear, her index finger tracing it slowly, again and again. Her head was on his shoulder and he heard her repeatedly inhale him, take a deep breath of him. He did the same to her, the scent of her perfuming his thoughts themselves. He squeezed her more tightly against him.

How could his life have become such chaos and yet make better sense to him than it ever had before? The answer was in his arms. _Sarah._

He had been smitten - more than smitten, _devoted_ \- from the first eye contact in the Buy More. Yes, the Intersect had complicated the scene a moment later, but his desire to look back as he ran from the store had been operative from the beginning. The entire time she chased him, he desired to look back, really was looking back at her - _at _her and _for _her. That desire had been constant since that first eye contact. He had submitted to it at the Tarzana house, after Mount Shasta, after Carina's, at the MoPop. He had trusted her from the get-go.

_Well, there was that moment at the Greyhound Terminal. -True, but I was ignorant there, but not really mistrustful, inconstant. Or if I was, my trust only wavered; it did not fail. Carina righted me and then Sarah came to MoPop - and I was finally, completely a goner. She kissed me and she killed me. Just like she said. Even if I claimed I lived through it. _

He was still holding her earlier comment in his mind, considering it: her comment about the future. She had mentioned the future before, but somehow that moment, in its playful intimacy, loomed largest in his mind. He did not know what pet name to give her - 'Babe' and 'Snuggles' had both been ruled out, and Chuck had to admit that was too bad: he liked them both, particularly 'Snuggles'. But she was right; that wouldn't do. She was not the Ice Queen anymore, but neither was she Snuggles. Not that she wouldn't snuggle; she would and she was good at it, although she preferred _silent _snuggling. _A spy thing, probably. _

_The future. _He needed to get the damn Intersect out of his head. The renewed chance that it could harm him was frightening. But he was still determined to fight against Bryce, to stop Fulcrum's plan. He was running a risk, he knew, but he was not going to let Sarah, or his Mom or his Dad, any of them, run that risk for him. The Intersect was functioning differently. That was obvious. He had flashed - although that now seemed hardly the right word - on Bryce's plan just as his Dad had guessed it. He was sure that they were right about what Bryce was going to do. The question was whether or not they could stop it.

The flash had _seemed_ like a memory - but a memory he _knew_ was not a memory. That feeling of finding the unfamiliar familiar seemed to have replaced the grinding gears and blinding pain of his earlier flashes. So far, since Bryce showed him the slides and he lost consciousness, Chuck had felt better, much better; the pain in his head was gone. Still, he was wary. Even his dad did not fully understand the Intersect. What was his dad's word? _Unravel. _It could all unravel. Not just his head, his mind, but his life, his life that was itself making sense for the first time since his mom had left, for the first time since his dad had left, for the first time since he found Bryce and Jill together. He was reclaiming his head and his life - and all because of the woman pressed tightly against him.

* * *

Sarah felt Chuck squeeze her, and she reveled in the feeling, pressing herself still more tightly to him.

She reveled in their ardent intimacy - despite the overarching tension of the moment. She had never been so close to another person. He filled her completely. Her mind and her heart. He had all five of her senses working overtime - full, each in its own way, with the presence or the memory of Chuck. She could still taste his kiss, given just before they got in the car. She could feel him, see him, hear his heart beating, and she could smell him, he was scenting her clothes, her life, _her_. She loved it, that scent - it had lulled her in his bed in Burbank. It both oriented and excited her in equal measures now.

She was worried about him, about the Intersect. Just when she thought they could breathe, expect to be rid of the thing before it harmed Chuck, it had revealed itself as still a threat. She wanted to live away from threats - at least the threats of the spy life. She was sure that what she wanted was Chuck, first, and a home with him, second. They could let life and nature take their course from there. _God, that sounds good. Chuck, home, life, and nature. _ She could maybe find a job working with kids, special needs kids again. Doing that had been a heart-opening experience for her.

Her fondest wish as she held Chuck there in the car was for a life in which her heart was _open_. Open to him and open to life, to life, to love, to learning, sharing herself, all of herself, with him. Her heart no longer locked inside herself, her own detention center, bound in chains of self-disgust, lonely past all belief, certainly lonely past her own knowing.

They needed to get this done: get done with Bryce, with Fulcrum and then with the Intersect, so that she and Chuck could really begin, really begin the life of her imagination.

She closed her eyes and rested her head on Chuck, relaxing for a moment, and she let her imagination run away with her.

She was so thankful for the mission that had sent her to him. She was happy, despite the circumstance. She never imagined for herself such high-wrought happiness.

* * *

Casey glanced to his side. He was driving the car, and Stephen and Mary had ended up in the front seat with him. Zondra was in the back with Sarah and Chuck. He glanced in the rearview, at the couple. Less Sarah and Chuck, two, than Sarah-and-Chuck, one. He grunted internally. _Good for them. I'm hoping for something like that too. One._

But then he glanced again at Stephen and Mary. Despite the crowding, they seemed completely separate. Not just two, but two apart. Mary, in the middle, was seated closer to Casey than to her husband, turned toward Casey, as if she were afraid of making bodily contact or eye contact with Stephen. Stephen, by the door, was turned and looking out into the settling darkness, his neck almost hidden in his shoulders, his right hand clutching the door's armrest. Casey had never seen so much unhappiness in so little space.

* * *

Mary was struggling - struggling to breathe, to control her racing heart.

Stephen was beside her and she wanted to touch him. Her body yearned for contact with him. She tried to keep space between them, even if it meant there was no space between her and Casey. If she touched Stephen, she had no idea what would happen. In the dark, for days, weeks, months - who knew how long exactly - she had touched him in her mind. She had replayed the scene of their first meeting and of their first time making love so many times that she had begun to lose her ability to distinguish the memory from fantasy. It was both, really. A past she desperately wanted to re-live, to get right this time. But how could she trust herself to do it? Did all that suffering in the dark, all that yearning in the dark, change her? As far as she could tell, she was the same old Frost, no warmer. She wanted to be part of her kids' lives - but would they allow it? Would they want her if she remained what she had been, if she was at best an occasional visitor and not really, still not really, their mother? What she had done to them, done to Stephen - who would, who could do such a thing except for a woman hopelessly broken, irreparable.

_Irreparable_. That was the word. She was worse than damaged goods; she was five feet and a few inches of scorched earth. Nothing could grow or change in her, not now. She had taken life many times; she had given it twice; she could never sustain it, in herself or anyone else. She shattered hearts, her own included. She could not mend them. Touching Stephen would be a mistake. It would make leaving that much harder when the time came. Better to keep a distance between them.

* * *

Stephen looked out the window, grasped the door. But he was attentive only to his wife beside him.

He knew that he had never really understood her. He had let himself make assumptions about who she was, how she felt, what she needed, and he acted faithfully on those assumptions. But so many of the assumptions were wrong. He had thought she could leave the spy life behind, make a clean break. But he did not know very much about her spy life, about her past, and he had been frankly afraid to know much. That it was...unsavory...was not a secret, but he gave her no invitation to tell him, to share that part of her life with him, so that he could be responsive to her real needs as she struggled to put it behind her. He knew she did, for a time. And he knew that even when she went back to the life, she tried to fit it into their married life, not her married life into it. Yet, he had not reckoned with the cost of all that, and he left her to pay it on her own.

He had trapped her and himself in a contradiction. He believed that she had changed and that she couldn't change. He had somehow convinced her of it too. He saw her as two women - a spy who could not be trusted with his heart, or even with her own, and as his wife and (eventually) the mother of his children. Yes, she had kept secrets. But he had, in a thousand little ways, whispered to her by his actions that he did not want to know. He wanted her to share herself with him and not to share herself with him, to keep a part of herself distant from him. He had in effect rejected a part of her, and so rejected her, in the midst of his overwhelming desire to keep her. It was no wonder, looking back, that she had been driven to...what she had been driven too. It was not wholly his fault, no. But he had to bear some of the blame. He had chased her down in Barcelona - or she had let him catch up with her. _It doesn't matter. _When he found her, he was uncompromising. He would have her back: but on his same contradictory terms.

He did not know if he could forgive what she had done. He was better than he was before, certainly better once the Intersect stopped playing it over and over in his head, better when he could imagine her other than as draped in blue light inside _La Sagrada Familia_. They had never been any good at talking to each other. He laughed internally, bitterly, at a memory: Morgan once had told Stephen that Stephen and Mary were "crappy at communicating". At the time, the comment had irked Stephen. A mere boy overstepping his bounds. But that mere boy had been right. All this misery was the result of an inability for two people in love to trust that love and so to trust each other, to entrust their felt words to each other. Maybe he could not forgive her, but what happened on that beach was partly engineered by him: he drove her into an unendurable corner then was shocked when she found an unimaginable exit from it.

_I just want to tell her I love her. And then listen to whatever she wants to say in response - if anything. _

He looked silently out the window. He would find his chance. And if he did not, he would let her go. They'd hurt each other several lifetimes' worth.

* * *

Carina wheeled the car into the parking lot across the street from the Meat Sciences Lab.

She was oddly jumpy - especially since there was no reason to think this should be difficult. They needed to grab some things, Ellie knew which ones, and get them to the car. The only real problem was logistical: how to get them across the street without drawing notice. But nothing they were after was large, and Stephen said only one was heavy. They had Devon for that.

One reason Carina was jumpy was that she knew she had been entrusted with people that she was not only coming to like, but people who mattered a great deal to Sarah and to Zondra. Carina shook her head internally, not wanting anyone to notice and ask - but while Sarah's attraction to Chuck was no mystery at all to Carina, Zondra's to Morgan was.

Morgan did not seem to be Zondra's style. Back in the CATs days, Zondra and Sarah had never been as eager for companionship as Carina and Amy had been. In fact, although the competition the women was complicated and unending, it was particularly so between Zondra and Sarah. Zondra had, in her way, idolized Sarah. She upped the ante on her bitchiness as an attempt to match Sarah's iciness. It never worked.

Sarah was simply closed, unreachable. Zondra instead was aggressive, sometimes downright mean. A botched imitation. It was as if someone had tried to reproduce the Ice Queen but in molten lava. There were similarities but the medium was of the wrong sort. Zondra was incapable of Sarah's deep withdrawals, of her hiding inside herself, of Sarah's impassiveness. Carina could mimic those features of Sarah's better, really, than Zondra could - though again the medium was different. So the fact that passionate Zondra had fallen for someone - and obviously, she had - was not in itself surprising. That Morgan was the someone, that was surprising. Still, Carina was happy to give Zondra and Morgan the benefit of the doubt. Zondra was far, far from a fool. If she believed she had found something in Morgan, Carina believed it was there.

Another reason Carina was jumpy, reluctant as Carina was to admit it to herself, the primary reason, really, was that she was frightened for John. That was a new experience. Of course, she had been concerned about the safety of her fellow DEA agents or of the other CATs on missions. She had never felt this deep, pervasive fear before. John was a remarkable agent and a remarkable soldier - she knew that. But anything could happen, anything could go sideways. And Carina did not want that.

For the first time in her adult life, she was hoping for no improvisation, nothing impromptu. She wanted everything to go according to plan. She wanted John to come back to her and she wanted to welcome him back to her.

She had come on this trip to see the _Ice Queen _in love; she was getting more than she bargained for. A lot more.

* * *

Bryce had gotten spooked. That did not happen.

It had, though. He could not shake the feeling that Chuck was still alive - even worse, the feeling that Chuck was coming, that Chuck was going to somehow interfere with the plan. That was crazy. Chuck was dead. Dead. Absolutely cold and dead. Maybe he had had Chuck on his mind for too long, maybe he was too much in the habit of thinking about him.

Because, truth be told, he thought about Chuck often, _all the damn time_: Chuck was his nemesis. It was a frustrating thing - to have a nemesis who had no idea he was your nemesis. Who did not want to be anyone's nemesis. That had been Bryce's fate. He had tried again and again to try to stop hating Chuck, to replace the itching, burning hatred with the chill indifference of contempt. He never managed it. Always, the itching, burning hatred. Always that stupid, open, honest face, those damn kind eyes. Always the remembrance of Chuck's uncomplicated, genuine and generous friendships. Always Chuck's obvious love for his parents beneath whatever momentary frustration or anger or desire to hate them he had. Always that same un-self-serving willingness to help, to take others seriously, sometimes more seriously than they could or would take themselves. _Even that moron, Morgan! I should have shot Morgan before I left Bozeman, just to make sure he did not further pollute the human gene pool._

So Bryce made a spooked phone call.

He had three men still on campus at MSU. Bryce had planned to use them tomorrow or the next day, to 'clean' the Meat Sciences lab once his plan unfolded.

They were on campus to watch over the President (a loyal Fulcrum man but no agent, a money man not a gunman), and their cover was as maintenance men. Bryce called Vincent Smith, the ranking Fulcrum agent, and ordered him to take the other two men and check on the Meat Sciences lab. He told them they would find Bartowski's corpse there, and that they should go ahead and get rid of it. He wanted them to report to him in the morning. By morning, everything on Rushmore should be finished.

* * *

Vincent Smith mopped his forehead with an already damp handkerchief.

Vincent was no coward but Bryce Larkin...made him...nervous. Larkin was not wildly insane or unpredictable, but he was too sure of himself for Vincent's taste, given to showy grandstanding instead of the steady, daily work that insured success, even for spies. Larkin should have just killed the guy he left behind in the lab, as any sober, workaday spy (like Vincent) would have done. Besides, Vincent hated the Meat Sciences lab. He was a vegetarian, contemplating the transition to full-frontal vegan, and he could not enter that building without seeming to smell the innocent, spilt blood of bovines, without hearing that Smiths' song, _Meat is Murder_ playing in the steak-haunted hallways. He wanted to get in, dispose of the corpse - the requisite acid was in the maintenance truck - and get out of the scene of so much senseless cruelty.

He checked his pistol and his men checked theirs. He nodded at them. "In and out, men, in and out. Let's not dally."

* * *

Carina was unplugging the final machine Ellie said they needed. Devon had one in his arms, Morgan another. Ellie was ready to pick up the one Carina was unplugging. She bent down, trying to pull harder on the plug, and she heard a voice, male, not Devon's and not Morgan's.

"Put up your hands! Where is the body?"

As she stood, she heard Morgan ask in a steady voice. "Are you guys looking for some body?"

* * *

Aboard the 'copter, Zondra wondered about Morgan and recollected the day she had spent with him, and hearing about him. She felt good about it all. Particularly about Morgan's willingness to step up and take...matters...into his own hands. She was unsure what it all meant. A few days ago, she had thought she was going to complete her Red Test and join Sarah Walker as Graham's Enforcers. She had wanted that from back in her CATs days, but wanted it more, and for a different reason, after those days. But then she had not been able to do what Graham ordered. True, she had been stopped - Morgan - but she acknowledged now that it was never going to happen. She could not have killed Ellie Bartowski in cold blood.

That was a few days - and a lifetime ago. She had since found Morgan, reunited with Sarah and Carina, and found them changed. Sarah was not the Enforcer any longer. She was in love with Chuck. Carina seemed taken with, and taken by, John Casey. Zondra did not know if 'love' was the right word for what Carina felt, but it was starting to seem like the right word. _Carina and 'love': not a twosome I ever expected where she was concerned. It's actually less a shock, I see now, to combine Walker and 'love', particularly now that I have met Chuck._ And the word 'love, while not a word she was ready to use in relation to herself and Morgan, was on her mind, a stranger word in a strange land. Or maybe not so stranger and strange. Changes were afoot. She was looking forward to having a chance to see what came of what she and Morgan started in their hotel room that morning.

She was _eagerly_ looking forward to that. To seconds. And thirds. That was a first.

* * *

The helicopter landed in the Black Hills, outside of earshot from Rushmore.

Sarah put her phone away. Brown was still not answering. She was beginning to worry about him. It would have been good to have his help, to have him available. If not before or during, then after all of this. She hoped he would be available then. He had managed to get two jeeps to the landing site; he must have arranged it before he became _incommunicado_.

They quickly got out of the helicopter and into the jeeps. The night was clear, the moon heavy and bright. Sarah drove one jeep, Casey drove the other. They waved thanks to the pilot as they pulled away; he would be waiting there for them. The moonlight allowed them to forgo headlights.

As had been true on the drive to the airport, they rode along in silence. When they got as close as they dared, they stopped. After they got out and geared up, Stephen spoke. His voice sounded strange there in the dark.

"Okay, Zondra's told us that there's an elevator - the main entrance. And that there are also ventilation shafts up near the top. There's a path up, rough and obscured but traversable. Sarah, Zondra, and Mary will go up: they're most likely to fit into the shafts. We will give them some time, then Chuck and Casey and I will approach the tunnel leading to the elevator. My hope is that we can pinch Bryce between us. The women from above, the men from below."

Zondra laughed quietly. "Morgan would have enjoyed that sentence."

There were smiles in the dark. Everyone relaxed a little. "We have to try to do this silently. I don't know if that will be possible. It's more likely possible for you," he motioned to the women, "than for us...And, yes, Morgan would've liked that too...Anyway, we will wait. Sarah, text Chuck when you are in position." She nodded.

Chuck walked to her and took her in his arms. "I love you, Sarah, be safe, please."

She kissed him quickly. "I love you too."

Sarah looked up in time to see Stephen and Mary share a glance, but Sarah did not know what it meant and was unsure if they did.

She led Zondra and Mary away, in the direction Stephen had pointed out. They found the path and started up it. They had flashlights but they walked by moonlight. The path rapidly became steep and uneven. Sarah realized that Zondra and Mary's injuries, while improved and improving, were slowing them. She allowed herself to move on ahead, reconnoitering but kept careful tabs on where they were behind her.

After a long, exhausting climb, Sarah knew she must be near the ventilation shaft. Zondra and Mary were a distance behind her. She stepped up, past a tall, jutting rock that obscured her view.

She saw the ventilation shaft. Sarah also saw Jill Roberts, seated on the ground next to the opening of the shaft, a pistol in her lap. Her head was down. She had not noticed Sarah. Sarah trained her pistol on Jill.

"_Jill Roberts_, I presume? I don't think we've met. I'm Sarah Walker."

Jill's head snapped up. Sarah could see moonlit tears on Jill's face. Jill raised her hands, and replied, tired and galled. "_Walker?_ Jesus, goddamn blondes on both ends of my shit day."

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for action atop and inside of Abe Lincoln's head. (There's a sentence you don't see everyday!)

Lots of folks out there reading silently. Love to hear from you. Leave a review in the box or send me a PM. Doesn't need to be anything fancy.

Chapter Theme: Family of the Year, _I'm the One_


	37. Chapter 35: Dark Medicine: Part One

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

This will be a three-parter, three chapters. So, here we go - Part One. Heading home tomorrow and taking the weekend off. Wedding anniversary.

* * *

"_Put up your hands! Where is the body?"  
As she stood, she heard Morgan ask in a steady voice. "Are you guys looking for some body?"_

_She saw the ventilation shaft. Sarah also saw Jill Roberts, seated on the ground next to the opening of the shaft, a pistol in her lap. Her head was down. She had not noticed Sarah. Sarah trained her pistol on Jill.  
_"_Jill Roberts, I presume? I don't think we have met. I'm Sarah Walker."  
Jill's head snapped up. Sarah could see tears on Jill's face. Jill raised her hands, and replied, tired and galled. "Walker? Jesus, goddamn blondes on both ends of my shit day."_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

**Dark Medicine: Part One**

* * *

Late Wednesday, Early Thursday

* * *

Bryce rubbed his hands together in exultant satisfaction.

_It had worked_. Of course, all his plans worked..._in the end_. His team had executed the plan perfectly, drilled to exactness. The guards were tranqed, out for a few hours. The Joint Chiefs and their entourage in the main room were all out too, but would not be out for nearly so long. Bryce needed them to be awake, fully awake soon. It was among Bryce's satisfactions that Stanfield, if not dead, would soon be Intersected, a Fulcrum sleeper agent, to be put to work as Bryce chose, when Bryce chose.

Bryce unreined his imagination for a second. It would be glorious. He had learnt by running Fulcrum while a CIA agent. _Hell, most of Fulcrum has no idea who I really am. They think I really am a CIA agent. Top brass posing as middle management. _He grinned in self-satisfaction. He would use a similar sort of strategy with his sleepers. Fulcrum would eventually be all-but running the country, the deep state, anyway, the real country, while no one had any idea. The sleepers would create more sleepers. The blank, submissive identity that Fleming created would be injected into key government functionaries. There was no need to aim at the President. The real power was spread out, in a hundred unelected, virtually undismissable hands. Eventually, many of those hands would be sleeper hands. Bryce would be the puppeteer of the deep state. It would be glorious. And he owed it to Bartowski, who gave his life so that Bryce might thrive. Who died, so that the Intersect could live. A fitting end for the son of Orion, Orion, creator of his son and of his son's end. _How do you like that irony, Chuck?_

Humming Alanis Morissette to himself, Bryce powered up his computer, connecting to Fulcrum's satellite, long in orbit in preparation for this moment. In a few seconds, Manoosh Depak appeared on the screen. Bryce had not, certainly not, entrusted Depak with a copy of the Intersect. But Manoosh had designed the computer Bryce was using and had tweaked Fleming's programming. He would talk Bryce through the process of Intersecting the Chiefs. Bryce smiled at Depak's obvious exhilaration. Depak did not suspect that tomorrow Amy would be dispatched to DC, to report back to Langley. That report would be for cover maintenance, but her Fulcrum mission would be to...dispatch...Depak. Once Bryce understood how to download the Intersect identities, he would not need Depak anymore. _The Manoosh would vamoose. _Bryce chuckled to himself. _Funny!_

Bryce set up things as Depak instructed. Bryce would use the giant screen in the room to perform the download. He worked quickly, listening to Depak, who could both see some of the room and who had stolen photographs of the secret room to guide him. Soon, everything was ready. The tranq victims in the room were beginning to stir. Bryce motioned for his men to put on the glasses with white lenses they had brought with them (no such thing as transparent white), and, as an added protection, they all turned, facing away from the giant screen. It was a surreal scene, Dali-esque.

Soon.

* * *

Depak rubbed his index finger in small circles on his computer's _Return _key.

Larkin had underestimated Depak, largely because Larkin had, predictably, overestimated Larkin. Depak had installed a program inside Fleming's program. it would copy the Intersect and send it, via Fulcrum's satellite, to Depak. The program would then erase itself and all traces of its operation. Depak would have his own Intersect. He had not decided what things he would do with it, but whatever he did, the things would be "the terrors of the earth".

_King Lear. An Overlord should always be prepared with a learned quotation._

His finger rubbed the _Return _key.

Soon.

* * *

Jill made no move to stand. She kept her hands in the air.

Sarah was not sure she understood Jill's comment about her 'shit day'. "I'm afraid I am going to need to get past you, Jill. There are things going on below that need to be stopped."

Jill sighed but did not move. "How are you here? Are you here for Bryce? If you are, believe me, you can have him. Who hasn't?" Jill screwed her face into a mock-smile.

"But you probably don't know about all that, do you?"

"I've gotten clearer about Bryce in the last few days, Jill. Believe me, I am not here for Bryce. Not in the way you mean. I'm here to _stop _him."

Jill's shoulders slumped. "No one can stop him. He always wins."

Sarah knew that Mary and Zondra would be there soon. It would be easier to handle Jill with them there. Sarah stalled, kept Jill talking.

"Bryce doesn't always win. He tried to make me Fulcrum and it didn't work."

Jill's countenance lifted. "That's true. That was almost enough to make me like you - if it weren't for _the Anderson's._"

Sarah blushed in the moonlight. "The Anderson's were a mistake. Bryce almost persuaded me, almost...but, as I just said, it didn't work." Sarah could hear Mary and Zondra coming. "Tell me something, Jill, something I am curious about. How could anyone with a choice between Bryce Larkin and Chuck Bartowski ever choose Bryce?"

"What do you know about that?" Jill demanded, her face falling. "I didn't choose Bryce. I was already stuck with him. I did what I did to stay alive and to make sure that Chuck didn't get hurt...physically hurt."

"I don't know much about it, really, neither you nor Bryce has been a major topic of conversation between us, Chuck and me. We'll get to that when we have time, but I think we are already past _the fact_ of both."

"We? So you are with him? Is he here?"

"Not just with him, Jill, with-with him. And, yes, I suppose it won't hurt to tell you that he is here."

"So Ellie and Morgan were right. They thought you two were...together."

"Yes, we're together."

"How can that be?" Jill's question was at once plaintive and disbelieving. "He can't know what you are", she said in answer to herself.

"He knows, Jill. He knows what _I was._"

"Oh, C'mon, Walker. A tense shift? Like women like us could change?"

"Changed."

Jill's mouth worked for a minute but she said nothing. "No, Walker. You're self-deceived. Think about who you've been, what you've done. Your motives can't excuse you. Nothing can. It's all written in stone. Headstones. Chuck is...Chuck. For him to be...with-with..._you_...would be self-betrayal, corruption. If you care about him - if you can care about him or anyone - walk away from him. He can't save you but you can damn him."

Sarah faltered, unsure of how to respond.

"No." Mary stepped into Sarah's peripheral vision, her gun up, pointed at Jill, level and steady. "Jill, I take it?"

Jill nodded, confused. "Yes, who are you?"

"I'm Chuck's mom."

"You've got to be kidding. I thought you were...gone."

Mary swallowed hard. "I was. But now I am here." She narrowed her eyes. "Don't confuse Sarah with yourself, Jill. She loves my son and she's good for him. He's good - he's even better - with her. Or _with-with _her," Mary added with a quick smile, looking toward Sarah. Sarah grinned and shrugged, pleased to her toes.

"I thought you were some sort of accountant or an account auditor or something?" Jill still had her hands up.

"Cover me," Mary said to Sarah. Mary crossed to Jill and took the gun from her lap. Jill sighed and put her hands down. "No, Jill," Mary responded finally, "I am not an account auditor. That was my cover."

"Your cover? You mean, you're a spy?" Jill looked confused, then comprehending. "Oh, shit, you are a spy. I mean look at you with the gun and Walker and the frosty eyes and everything. Of course, you are a spy. Chuck's mom is a spy. Chuck's girlfriend is Graham's Ice Queen." Jill threw her hands in the air, an eloquent expression of exasperated defeat. "_Fuck me_."

Amy walked into the scene from the side, her gun on Mary and Sarah. "Bryce will later, I'm sure, Jill, if I give it the okay. Hey, Sarah-girl! Fancy meeting here, huh? It's like a Hitchcock movie."

Sarah knew the voice. She did not turn. Amy. The traitor. Of course, she was the traitor. But she also had the drop on them.

Sarah heard Amy giggle. She had forgotten how annoying that sound was.

* * *

Vincent turned his gun on the small bearded man who asked the question. "Yes, we are looking for some body - the Bartowski body."

The small bearded man grinned calmly. "Sorry, guys, the tomb is empty."

"What?" Vincent snapped the question.

"Catholic kid, once upon a time. Some of it stuck. Not much really. But that."

Vincent had no idea what the man was babbling about. He was about to kill him when the tall redhead spoke, moving in measured steps to interpose herself between the man and Vincent.

"Don't be pissed at him. His parents were papists. Not his fault. He's also a little…" Carina moved her finger in circles near her temple, "...touched."

Vincent saw the small man's eyes go unfocused for a second. The man whispered to himself, aloud. "_And how_…"

Vincent raised his gun, now pointing it at the redhead. "I don't give a shit about his history. I want the body. What have you done with it?"

"He has risen," the small man offered, his eyes re-focused, smiling wide, pleased with himself.

Vincent sneered. "Yeah, maybe. I trained myself to withstand poison. Who knows what's possible? Well, I take that back. I know what's impossible." With a flick of his wrist, he moved his gun from the redhead to the beard. He saw the redhead move as he squeezed the trigger.

A deafening shot; the beard fell.

* * *

Bizarre.

Chuck found it all bizarre.

It was bizarre enough to be in an elevator heading up into Abraham Lincoln's...head, but he was doing it with his dad and with John Casey, and with the unconscious bodies of two now-bound Fulcrum agents that Casey had rendered unconscious with his bare hands.

There was one more bound agent below, near the elevator entrance. Chuck's dad had taken care of that man. Chuck's dad was a spy. Reluctantly, perhaps, but he was one. Chuck recognized the calm with which his father attacked the man, a calm Chuck had known in himself after downloading the Intersect. A spy family, they were a spy family. Spying was the family curse. Like heart trouble in other families. But maybe theirs was a heart trouble too, just not of the physical variety.

He had watched his dad and mom in the car a bit, in the helicopter a lot. They were each painfully focused on one another but more painfully desperate not to broadcast that focus, to acknowledge it to each other. Memories from his childhood flooded back to Chuck, of similar moments before his mom left, moments in which unspoken words filled the house but were never sounded. His dad staring with longing at his mom; his mom staring with longing at his dad, the mutual longing palpable but unresolved.

He could not, would not, let the same happen between himself and Sarah. He needed to tell her about the Intersect, what had been going on with him. She knew generalities; he needed to supply the specifics. He needed to tell her about Jill, ask her about Bryce. He knew the thought of him with Jill must make her feel as queasy as the thought of her with Bryce made him. They had both been gulled, violated, used. He vowed to talk to her as soon as he could after all this ended. She was communicating with him; he had not done so well with her. He had an excuse, but still...

The elevator climbed slowly. Casey had a silencer on his weapon; so did Chuck's dad. They looked grimly at each other then at Chuck. Casey: "Who knows what's up there. With any luck, they have not noticed we are coming or they think we are part of them, one of the downstairs guys moving up. When the doors open, duck. Your dad will take the left side of the room, I'll take the right. As we planned before, you need to stop the Intersect, assuming we are in time."

* * *

Bryce put his finger on _Return. _

It was time.

He inhaled in before depressing the button. The elevator doors opened with a ping.

_Now!_

* * *

"Damn," Vincent hissed. The redhead's movement made him flinch slightly, involuntarily. He was unsure if the shot had killed the bearded man. The redhead kicked at him from a distance too far away, and then Vincent realized he had underestimated the length of her legs. Her foot whipped up and into his gun hand and his gun flew into the air.

Shots filled the room. His men were firing. The redhead had gone into a crouch after her kick, like a dancer, and her gun was out. One of his men had fired at her and missed. The other fired at the tall blonde man. The shot hit the machine in the blonde man's hands but did not carry through to him. He threw the machine at the man who shot at him.

Vincent saw the man who shot at the redhead weave and fall. Vincent scrambled for his gun. The redhead put her foot out and tripped him as he rushed toward it. He went down hard, face first, on the unyielding floor. His mouth erupted in pain and blood. He pushed himself up, spitting out teeth. _Thank God for tofu! _

The dark-haired woman got to Vincent's gun. She picked it up and pointed it at him. Vincent turned his head and saw his other man on the floor, unconscious or dead, the machine thrown at him resting half on his chest, half on the floor.

"Don't move or I will save you a trip to the prison dentist," the dark-haired woman spat. Vincent looked into her eyes. He saw them frost over. He put his hands in the air.

* * *

"So it was you all along, bitch," Sarah growled, interrupting Amy's continued giggle.

"Now, now, Sarah, don't be a poor loser. I enjoyed it all so much. Not just screwing over the CATs, but you in particular. Watching you fall apart. Watching you turn on that bitch, Zondra. What a hoot. The only thing hard was stifling my giggles." Amy's voice lost its playful tone. "Put your guns down. You two aren't going anywhere."

Sarah bent down and put her gun on the ground. Mary did the same, her gun and Jill's. Amy walked around to stand between and in front of them. Even in the moonlight, Sarah could see that Amy was flushed with victory. She had a beauty contestant's grin on her face.

"Touching little speeches. I enjoyed them. Never imagined you as the leading lady in a romance, Sarah. But I guess we blondes belong there, don't we?" Amy shot a glance at Jill, who was standing, a lost frown on her face, turning from Amy to Sarah and back again as if she were watching a dispiriting tennis match.

Amy turned back to Sarah. "I am the leading lady, though, really, Sarah. Always have been. You were a mission. Jill is..." - _contemptuous __smirk_ \- "...Jill. I'm the one who does it for Bryce."

Amy's smile grew triumphant - then lost its edge. Her eyes glassed over. A black streak - moonlit blood - rivuleted down the middle of her face, splitting her smile in two. Her body collapsed.

Behind Amy stood Zondra, her silenced pistol smoking. "And I'm the one who does it for you."

Jill's frown slowly turned a little upside-down.

* * *

"Ellie," Carina shouted. "See about Morgan." Ellie realized Carina had her gun on the bloody man. She ran to Morgan, putting the gun beside him. He was on the floor, his body sprawled awkwardly, blood pooling around him. "Devon, help me!"

As Devon unfroze - he had been staring at the man he's catapulted the heavy machine upon - he ran toward her. She heard a hard, wet, slapping sound and whirled her head. Carina was standing over the bloody man, her gun in her hand. He was unconscious on the floor. Carina's gun and hand were bloody.

Ellie looked at Morgan. His shirt was soaking in crimson. "Oh, God, Morgan, you fantastic, holy fool, hang on!"

Carina came and knelt beside Ellie. She looked down at Morgan, her eyes wide in panic. "Zondra is going to kill me. We have to save him."

Devon grabbed the front of Morgan's shirt and ripped it in two. Ellie gasped. Devon blinked. "Not awesome," he muttered.

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for "Dark Medicine: Part Two".

Love to hear thoughts, reactions, whatever.

Chapter Theme: _North By Northwest Movie Theme _(available on Youtube).

Thanks to Beckster1213 and Chesterton.


	38. Chapter 36: Dark Medicine: Part Two

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Part Two of this section of the story.

* * *

_A deafening sound; the beard fell._

_Bryce put his finger on _Return_.  
It was time._

_Carina came and knelt beside Ellie. She looked down at Morgan. "Zondra is going to kill me. We have to save him."  
Devon grabbed the front of Morgan's shirt and ripped it in two. Ellie gasped. Devon blinked. "Not awesome," he muttered._

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

**Dark Medicine: Part Two**

* * *

Thursday, still the wee hours

* * *

_Now! _

The elevator doors opened and Chuck's dad and Casey immediately stationed themselves one on each side.

Chuck burst from the doors. He sighted Bryce on the far end of the room, Bryce's hand poised over a laptop. But Bryce seemed immobile: his eyes shocked, incredulous, full of Chuck.

* * *

_Now! _

Bryce was going to punch the button in triumph, went a glance at the elevator disclosed...Chuck. _Chuck. Fuck! _Bryce froze, his whole system in an Oedipal revulsion against his own eyes, denying the vision. He swiped at his eyes instead of punching the button, trying to wipe Chuck away.

_No, he's dead_. _I left him to die, dying, being consumed by the Intersect._

* * *

Chuck lept up on one end of the giant table that dominated the room, utilizing space between one of the generals seated at the end and one on the side. He raced along the tabletop, papers blowing up into the air as he passed, the generals and their aides just rousing themselves from unconsciousness and looking at Chuck as he sprinted before them as if he were the continuation of a dream.

In his periphery, Chuck saw four men in black standing on one side of the table, almost mirrored by three men in black on the other. Each was wearing glasses with milk-bottle white lenses, blind to him and what he was doing, at least for the moment. He heard tell-tale metallic gasps from behind him, and one man on each side went down.

The other men, hearing the disturbances, reached for their glasses, pulling them off. Chuck took one final great stride and, timing his leap with a physical certainty he did not know he commanded, he went airborne, sailing over the head of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and crashing violently onto Bryce.

* * *

Bryce recovered himself just as Chuck took to the air.

He punched at _Return_ but missed, looking up, not down. He heard Manoosh's voice: "Bryce? _Bryce?_ What's happening?" Bryce wished he had a gun. But he had been sure he had won. _Sure_. He had left it behind.

Chuck's crash dive ended with him atop Bryce. They both slammed to the floor but the blow to Chuck was largely cushioned by Bryce, who bore the brunt of it. Bryce gasped in pain, his old, healing injuries instantly aflame with new pain. He looked up into Chuck's eyes.

He had never seen so much anger in them. Chuck punched Bryce in the face, brutal, and Bryce felt his nose break, blood gush. He bucked himself on the floor and threw Chuck off him. He looked up to see four of his men down. The other three, two on one side of the table, one on the other, were crouched down, hiding behind the generals at the table. He wiped the blood from his face with his black sleeve.

Bryce saw John Casey - he knew him by sight - stick his head and gun out of the elevator. And then Bryce saw Orion, Stephen. _Stephen!_ _Another dead man reanimated. Bartowskis won't stay dead! _

Bryce scrambled to his feet and heard Chuck do the same.

The situation in the room was a momentary stalemate. Bryce's men lacked the firepower of Casey and Stephen. The men were armed only with Fulcrum tranq guns. But neither Casey nor Stephen could fire for fear of hitting one of those seated at the table. But the forecast for Bryce and his men did not look favorable.

Bryce turned to Chuck and kicked savagely at his head. Chuck parried the blow with speed and surety, and panic flickered in Bryce. _The Intersect. _Bryce doubled down on his attack and landed a fisted blow against the side of Chuck's head. It stunned Chuck, he reeled for a second. Bryce took advantage: he grabbed the laptop and fled toward a door at the near end of the room, away from the elevator.

He heard shots from Casey or Stephen, saw bits of the wall ahead of him, to the side, explode in rock chips, but he was through the door without getting hit. Chuck's steps pounded behind Bryce as Bryce vaulted up the crudely cut stairs. This was an exit that Bryce had kept knowledge of solely for himself. He sped up as he climbed.

Chuck was on the stairs behind and below him.

* * *

Zondra stepped over Amy's body and looked at Sarah. Sarah looked back at her.

Zondra turned and stood, gazing down at Amy's matted blood-on-blonde corpse. "I wasn't sure. I thought she might shoot one of you. And I owed her."

Zondra shook herself, trying to rid herself of the recoil from what she had done.

Mary retrieved her gun and Jill's, stuffing the latter into her waistband. "Zondra, you saved us. She would have gotten around to shooting us eventually. After she gloated us to death."

Jill was staring at Amy's corpse too, the trace of a smile lingering on her face. "I wish I had done that."

She tore her eyes away from the corpse. And then her smile grew. "Wait. I don't think I quite understood before." She glanced at Sarah. "You didn't just say you and Chuck are together, you mean you are also together _here, now. _Chuck's here, on Rushmore?"

Sarah gave her a sharp nod. Jill's grin widened even further. In a just-audible whisper, she addressed herself: "It worked. I actually did something…something good..." Zondra, hearing, was not sure what Jill meant.

Mary cut Jill off. "We don't have time for chitchat, ladies." She extended her wrist, showing her watch. "Chuck and Stephen and Casey, if they are on time, should almost be inside." She pointed at the ventilation shaft. "Let's go."

Zondra grabbed the cover of the shaft and lifted it up. "I'll go first. Sarah, you follow me. Jill, you're coming with us, so you follow Sarah. Mary, you come last. Remember, the shaft runs horizontally for a distance, then opens onto a long vertical shaft, larger, with a ladder. The ladder will take us down to the next horizontal shaft. At the end of it is the opening to the main room. And, Jill, don't doubt it for a second. Mary will kill you if you try anything."

Zondra put her pistol away and climbed in. Sarah glanced at Jill, trying to figure out what Jill meant about doing good (Sarah, like Zondra, heard it), but she pushed the thought aside, at least temporarily, and climbed in behind Zondra. She heard Jill and Mary follow her.

* * *

The shaft was small but they could crawl on all fours. As Sarah crawled, she heard Zondra whisper. "So, it was Amy all along. She was Fulcrum all along. She ruined the CATs, ruined us."

"Yes," Sarah whispered back, "she did. But we got past it."

"And what she said about Bryce - he was trying to turn you? He was never...he never..._cared_ for you?"

Sarah sighed, hoping that Jill could not hear. "No. I was his mark."

Sarah heard Jill's voice from behind her; Jill had overheard. "Despite what Amy implied about herself," Jill said softly, almost to herself, "Bryce only has marks. _Everyone_ is his mark. Some are potential marks, some are actual. Some are official, some…" she paused, "...are unofficial." Another pause. "So, Chuck, he's okay? The Intersect…?"

"He's okay," Mary growled from the rear. "Shut up, Jill." They crawled on in silence.

After a few minutes, Jill whispered again. "He loved me, you know, Sarah. _He loved me_. And, even after…even after, after everything, he went on loving me. Five _years_. It's possible, you know, that after all this gets...sorted, he will find that he still loves me. Me." Sarah could hear the addition: _Not you. _A note of hope had entered Jill's whisper.

Sarah recalled the file of Jill pictures on Chuck's phone. She felt her chest tighten. But then she recalled the password protecting that file. _Grace Kelly. _Chuck had told Sarah she was more beautiful than Grace Kelly. She thought of Chuck's arms around her earlier in the car.

"No, Jill, that's not going to happen. You're past. He's my guy." Jill fell silent.

They reached the larger, vertical shaft and descended the narrow ladder. Then they crawled along a smaller, horizontal shaft like the one at the top. They reached the end just in time to hear the muted coughs of silenced gunshots. Zondra squeezed herself small and rotated in the shaft, her feet toward the covering on the bottom of the shaft and on the ceiling of the main room.

She pulled her pistol and glanced, upside-down, at Sarah. Sarah had her pistol and nodded. She pointed at herself and then in one direction, then at Zondra and in another. Zondra nodded, refocused and kicked the covering free. She dropped into the main room. Sarah waited for a two-count, then dropped after her.

* * *

Manoosh was lost, confused.

He had no contact with Larkin anymore. The screen had gone black, the audio silent. He was suddenly blind and deaf. But his computer was still linked to the satellite and the satellite was still linked to Bryce's computer.

_What the hell is going on?_

* * *

Devon lifted Morgan gently and pulled his shirt off him. He used it to wipe the blood from the wound. The entry wound was above the heart. Devon blew out a breath and heard Ellie do the same.

"Well?" Carina cried.

"It missed his heart." Devon quickly moved to Morgan's side and lifted him. The exit wound was there, jagged and bleeding, but the bullet had passed through. The wound was to Morgan's upper chest, below the clavicle. Devon put him down and felt the clavicle. It was intact. Morgan stirred.

"Don't move, little buddy," Devon cautioned and Morgan went still. His eyes opened.

"I'm not dead?"

"No, Morgan," Ellie said with a sharp, concerned laugh, "you aren't dead. Devon?"

Devon had torn the shirt in two and slipped part of it beneath Morgan. The other part he pressed down on the wound, hard.

Morgan groaned. "Shit, that hurts." Devon nodded sympathetically. "I wish Zondra was here."

"She'll be back soon," Carina said, patting Morgan's cheek. She looked at Devon. "Can we move him?"

He nodded. "Yes, but carefully, once we get the bleeding to stop." He held the shirt on the wound. "Maybe you should make sure those guys aren't going to interfere." He nodded to Vincent.

Carina got up. She looked at Vincent. She pulled a cord from one of the machines and bound his hands. Next, she checked the man she shot but left him where he was. "Dead," she reported. The final man she worked to roll from beneath the heavy machine Devon threw at him. She took its cord and bound him. "They won't bother us. I doubt either will be conscious for a while." She nodded toward Vincent. "He's not going to have much of a smile in the future."

Devon gave her a grim look and kept the pressure on Morgan's shoulder. Morgan closed his eyes, groaning again.

Ellie looked up at Carina. "Let's forget the machines. Maybe we can collect them later. Can you bring the car closer?"

Carina nodded and left the room quickly. She was pulling out her phone as she did.

"Who's she going to call? The police?" Devon asked Ellie.

"Don't know. But she's the professional - of that sort. We're the doctors. Division of labor. Do you really think we can move him?"

Devon shrugged hopefully. "We can get him to an ER faster than an ambulance. The bleeding is worrisome. I'll stay in the back seat with him. Carina can drive us. Use your phone. What's the nearest hospital?"

* * *

Carina moved the car, hopping the curb, and parking it, still running, near the doors to the Meat Lab. She got out. There had been no answer to her call but now her phone was ringing. It was her boss at the DEA.

She answered and quickly explained that she had fallen in with a CIA mission and that there had been a shooting. Three bad guys, one dead. Two needed medical attention, the scene needed to be cleaned.

Her boss blew out an exasperated sigh. He was used to strange calls from Carina. She told him that there were complications: Fulcrum, worries about double-agents in the CIA. He had her give him the address. He promised to handle the complications. She was hurrying inside as he hung up.

Devon looked up when she entered and she gave him a quick nod. This was a mess - and she had wanted it all to go smoothly. But she was used to messes. Most of the time, she was the one who made them. Devon waved her toward Morgan's feet and she bent over and picked them up. Devon put his arms beneath Morgan's torso and Ellie replaced his hand with hers on the compress.

They started out of the building. Morgan was pale. He seemed to be unconscious again. Carina gritted her teeth. He was not going to die.

* * *

The exit Bryce was headed for was an exit used by the original sculptors to get out onto Lincoln's face.

Bryce knew that there was an old, narrow stairway that led up to the top from the door. He also knew there was a path down from the top. If he could get there, he could escape. He tucked the laptop under his arm and shoved the old door open. He slipped through it. He could still hear Chuck behind him.

He started up the stairs. He had run track at Stanford. He was still fast, even sore and hurting as he was. He heard Chuck come through the door.

"Bryce!" Bryce sped up as he heard Chuck shout his name.

* * *

Brown had a gun and he had it out.

He walked carefully to the building. The signal was coming from inside. Depak must be there. He had his cane in his other hand but he was careful not to make any noise. He had revived early from the tranq dart. With any luck, Depak would not be expecting any company, particularly not Brown.

Brown got to the door. He hooked his cane over his gun arm and turned the knob. Locked. Brown reached into his pocket and took out a small metal shim from his pocket. He slipped it between the frame and the knob and worked it back and forth slowly, so as not to make any extra sound. It took a minute, but the door was not state of the art, the lock was just an ordinary lock. Eventually, the shim slipped down and the door was open. Brown pulled it back an inch or so, then put the shim back in his pocket. The nearest street light was distant; not much light would flood in when he opened the door. He inhaled and exhaled. He pulled gently on the door, opening it just enough to look inside.

The building was full of odds and ends, construction materials. There was a stairway inside, across the floor, and it led up to an office upstairs. The office door was open and a light glowed from it. _Depak. _

Brown stepped through the narrow opening and pulled the door back, not closing it entirely but pulling the door to the frame.

Lucky. So far, so lucky. None of this would have worked out if Depak had not claimed a token of victory, Brown's sweater.

Brown often lost the sweater. He was, as his dad often told him, as absent-minded as a professor. At one point, tired of hunting for it regularly, he had slipped a tiny CIA tracker into the pocket and set up his phone so that he would locate it. The sweater had, like Brown's cane, once been his father's, and he was loathe to lose it. The tracker had led him here, to Depak.

He forced himself to walk carefully, ignoring the pain and awkwardness of forgoing the cane. He got to the stairs and heard Depak's voice, calling for Larkin. Brown put his foot on the first step. His bad leg. It wailed in pain but he had to ignore it. The leg had cost him a career as an agent, but maybe that was a good thing. Because of it, he was here, with a chance to land a blow to Fulcrum himself, not just to help others do so. Because of it, he would be an active part of the cure. Gritting his teeth, he stepped up. _I'm coming, Depak. Give me a minute. Don't go anywhere._

* * *

Zondra hit the ground in the main room and rolled over, up into a crouching position. She saw two men in black. The whirled toward her and she squeezed the trigger once, twice. Both men fell.

She heard Sarah hit the ground, roll the opposite direction, and then heard a shot.

Another sound of landing feet. Jill. Zondra turned. Sarah had her gun out and a man in black was on the ground not far from her. Two more landing feet and a groan. Mary.

"Clear!" Zondra heard Casey yell.

"Where's Chuck?" Sarah.

Zondra saw Stephen motion to a door behind them. Sarah ran toward it.

Stephen watched her go. He then stepped toward the large table and looked at the wide eyes o the people seated around it. "Everything's okay," Stephen said calmly. "You're going to be alright."

Zondra looked around the room. She quickly counted seven men in black, all down. Strange white sunglasses were strewn around the bodies, staring white at nothing. The large screen in the room was fuzzy grey, empty. They had been in time. As she put her gun away, she wondered about Morgan. She wanted to see him.

They needed to talk.

And stuff.

* * *

Bryce, panting, crested the stairs.

He glanced back; Chuck was gaining.

At the top, the path turned around a small outcropping of rocks. Bryce went around them and put the laptop on the ground. He crouched there in the dark, listening as Chuck clambered up. Just as Chuck got to the top, Bryce sprang up over the rocks. He landed just in front of Chuck and gave him a savage push.

Chuck tilted backward. Space opened and the rocks below prepared to embrace him.

* * *

Carina speared the car through the intersection toward the hospital. Ellie was giving her directions. Devon was in the backseat, Morgan propped up against him.

Ellie looked back at Devon. "How is he?"

"Bleeding again. How much farther?"

"A few blocks. The Deaconess Hospital. Will he make it?"

"I think so, but we need to hurry."

Carina shoved her foot to the floor and the engine roared. A minute later, she whipped into the lane that led to the ER and stopped the car. Ellie was out before it stopped rolling entirely and through the double sliding doors. Carina heard her yell. "Help! We need help. GSW! Help us, now."

* * *

Chuck's long arm snaked out and grabbed one of Bryce's still-extended arms.

Bryce had no choice but to brace himself or they both would fall. Chuck pulled himself to Bryce and swung at him. Bryce was able to deflect to blow. He stepped back and Chuck stepped forward, allowing no room to open between them.

Bryce jabbed and caught Chuck on the side of the head. Bryce stepped back again, tripped, and they both fell. Again, Chuck landed atop Bryce. For a second, the fight stopped. They were both panting, struggling for breath.

"You bastard," Chuck managed. "What you've done to me is bad enough, but what you've done to Sarah, to my mom…" And Chuck swung at Bryce. Bryce could taste the blood from his nose. He was having real trouble breathing since almost each breath was full of blood. He was able to dodge the swing though, and Chuck had swung so hard that he overbalanced himself. Bryce was able to buck him off again and scramble away.

Chuck reached out and got hold of Bryce. Bryce rolled onto his back and stomped his foot into Chuck's face. Chuck let go and Bryce grabbed the laptop and started running. In the moonlight ahead of him, he saw a body, a blonde in a crumpled heap. He knew immediately it was Amy. His felt excited relief. He knew she kept a knife strapped to her leg. He slid to a stop in the loose dirt and gravel and pulled up her pants leg. The knife was there! He pulled it from its scabbard, lashed to her dead leg. He could not hear Chuck coming yet. He propped the laptop on Amy's back and opened it. He heard Manoosh slowly repeating "Larkin?" in a monotone.

Bryce could call for help. Make sure someone was sent to find him, get him out of the Black Hills and to someplace safe. He heard Manoosh's voice change. "_Larkin_, is that you? Are the lights out? What's going on?"

Bryce got no chance to answer.

He heard Chuck moving stealthily behind him. He let Chuck creep closer, then spun, the knife out, swinging it in a heavy, killing arc. Chuck jumped back, but the blade caught his hand, slicing his palm.

Chuck retreated a step and Bryce pressed his advantage, smiling, smiling in the moonlight. Bryce had no idea how Chuck had lived, but he knew how he would die. He saw blood running from Chuck's hand onto the ground. His smile became feral.

Kill Chuck Bartowski. Nothing mattered until that was done. Kill Chuck.

He lunged toward Chuck. _Kill Chuck. _

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for Part Three.

Thoughts? Reactions? Time's running out...

Chapter Theme: _North By Northwest Theme_


	39. Chapter 37: Dark Medicine: Part Three

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

Part Three of this section of the story.

* * *

_Jill whispered again. "He loved me, you know, Sarah. He loved me. And, even after…even after, he went on loving me. Five years. It's possible, you know, that after all this gets...sorted, he will find that he still loves me." A note of hope entered Jill's whisper._

_Chuck retreated a step and Bryce pressed his advantage, smiling, smiling in the moonlight. Bryce had no idea how Chuck had lived, but he knew how he would die. He saw blood running from Chuck's hand onto the ground. His smile became feral.  
Kill Chuck Bartowski. Nothing mattered until that was done.  
He lunged toward Chuck._ Kill Chuck.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

**Dark Medicine: Part Three**

* * *

Thursday morning, wee hours, heading toward dawn

* * *

Smiling, his eyes fastened on Chuck, death in them and knife in hand, Bryce lunged.

Chuck dodged him, spinning. Bryce caught himself then stalked forward. He swept the knife in front of him, springing forward as he did. He raked the blade along Chuck's forearm and it bit deep. Black moonlit blood dripped from the new wound, as well as from the one to his opposite hand.

Chuck used Bryce's moment of recovery to step forward and punch Bryce hard in the face, smashing his already smashed nose. Bryce inhaled sharply in pain and swung the knife back, but Chuck had jumped out of the way. Chuck did not think about it, but he knew how to fight.

He had always been able to throw a punch. He had known that since the day he and Morgan became friends. But this _ballet de combat_ was new and news to him. _The Intersect, plus Orion, plus Chuck. _Byrce huffed. Chuck could tell Bryce was struggling to breathe. Chuck was too, but he seemed to be struggling less than Bryce.

Bryce lunged another time, the blade up and coming down this time. Chuck caught Bryce's arm and swept his feet from under him. They went down in a cloud of loose dirt, rock, and blood.

They rolled around, first one on top, then the other. Chuck was desperate to keep his grip on the knife arm. If he lost it, Bryce would kill him.

They finally finished rolling. Bryce was on top this time and he bled down into Chuck's face, Bryce's bared white teeth pink with inhaled blood.

He growled at Chuck: "You fucking _service animal! _Fetching and carrying other people's burdens." Bryce leaned forward, using his body weight to bring the knife nearer to Chuck's head. "You have the world in your head, in your _hands_, but you come here. To stop me."

Chuck watched as the knife descended, its descent slow but inexorable. He relaxed his arm for a split second, and Bryce's leaning against it tilted Bryce forward suddenly. Using Bryce's earlier maneuver, Chuck bucked, throwing Bryce forward. Bryce landed awkwardly as he tried to keep from accidentally stabbing himself. The adjusted landing caused the knife to pop from Bryce's hand. It landed next to Amy's body. Chuck twisted himself hard and climbed aboard Bryce's back.

"Chuck!"

It was Sarah. But she was behind them. She could not get a shot off. Bryce stretched for the knife. Chuck grabbed Bryce's hair and pulled his head up, his shoulders back, trying to keep Bryce from the knife.

Chuck hissed through his teeth: "Stop, Bryce!"

Bryce's outstretched, searching hand over-reached and smacked the keyboard of the computer.

Chuck saw the screen flicker to life. Instinctively, he let go of Bryce and covered his eyes.

* * *

Bryce was glaring forward, seeing but not looking at the screen when his hand hit the keyboard.

It came to life before Bryce could look away and a dizzy cavalcade of images burst onto the screen. He gasped internally, but he could not shut his eyes or turn away, not even when Chuck let go of his hair.

The Intersect screamed into Bryce's brain, a million images, patterns, and sub-patterns, a profusion, a confusion. The screen vomited, projectile vomited: colors, images, shapes, video clips, photographs, text - all of it projectiled through Bryce's fixated eyes and splattered in his inelastic, unforgiving mind.

The pain was intense, beyond overwhelming, and Bryce blacked out, his hand still outstretched on the keyboard, the computer still perched on Amy's dead body, the screen black. His head dropped into the dirt, his body went slack.

* * *

Chuck slumped onto Bryce's back, exhausted, trying to catch his breath.

Bryce's body convulsed beneath him, a series of irregular aftershocks.

A moment later, Chuck felt Sarah's hands, strong but gentle, on his shoulders. She helped him stand. "Chuck, Chuck, what happened? Was that the Intersect? I saw a glow."

They both looked down at another Bryce, racked by another convulsion. Chuck nodded wearily, no trace of sarcasm in his voice, merely resignation. "Yes, Bryce really has it now. Much good may it do him."

Sarah took Chuck in her arms and held him against her.

* * *

Manoosh watched his computer screen in rapt fascination. The displayed indicator line for the download was at 97%, 98%, 99%...

Bryce was running the Intersect. Manoosh's program was working exactly as Manoosh planned. He was stealing the Intersect. _Mine!_ In a moment, it would all be his. Involuntarily, he raised his fists to each side of his head. _Victory! _

Then he shouted the word aloud: "Victory!"

* * *

Brown brought his father's cane, made of Irish blackthorn, heavy and unbreakable, down on Manoosh's head, striking between his upraised fists, whipping it from one end with such force that the cane rebounded up toward the ceiling.

The word 'Victory' trailed off as Manoosh melted down in his chair.

"Loser."

Brown checked his cane. It was unbroken; the crack was a sound, not a break in the blackthorn He whistled low in relief. "For you, Dad."

He looked around the room. Manoosh's tranq gun was on the desk near him. Brown picked it up. He started to use it, then stopped. He put it down for a moment and put his own gun down too.

He carefully removed his sweater from Manoosh and put it on himself, taking a moment to button it. Then he picked up the tranq gun and fired several darts into Manoosh's back. He pushed Manoosh's unconscious body out of the chair, onto the floor and sat down at Manoosh's computer. He needed to figure out what had excited Manoosh so much.

After he settled in the chair, he heard voices from the laptop. It took him a second to recognize them. Sarah and Chuck. Brown spoke aloud. "Hey, you two, Sarah, Chuck, are you okay?"

There was a silence then Sarah answered. "_Brown_, is that you? _How? What?_ What's going on? Are you okay?"

Brown propped his bad leg on Manoosh, easing some of the pain. "Hey, Sarah! I asked first," he said, chuckling.

"By the way, I sent you some help a while ago, after...well, long story. I sent help CIA-style. Cleaners, more transportation." Brown checked his watch. "They should arrive soon. So, are you two okay?"

* * *

Carina had only gotten around to open the door for Devon when Ellie came out, followed by two nurses and a gurney.

They moved Morgan from the car to the gurney and wheeled him inside. Devon ran alongside, keeping his the soaking half of shirt pressed down. Carina saw a doctor catch up with the gurney and, giving Devon a smile, put her hand on the cloth and let Devon remove his. Devon yielded his place to the doctor but kept up with the gurney, filling the doctor in as they reached the swinging doors and wheeled Morgan in.

The doctor nodded as the doors swung shut, leaving Devon in the hallway, clutching and unclutching his bloody hands. Ellie had stepped aside earlier and she walked to Devon and put her arms around him from behind. Carina blew out a breath. _Damn it. _

Her phone rang. Her boss. She answered and he told her that the two men and one body had been picked up. The site was being cleaned. Her boss told her he had put in a call to Langston Graham, hoping, Carina knew though her boss did not say it, to wash his hands of the whole affair, to dump it on Langley. Carina thanked him.

He stopped her before she could hang up.

He had a new mission for her, a deep-cover op, likely to take many weeks, maybe months. Just her sort of thing. South America. A new drug cartel - The Gentle Hand. Carina shook her head at the ridiculous name but did not immediately respond.

After waiting for a minute, her boss went on. "Look, Miller, I know you are on vacation. But you are my best, God help me - but you are. Think about it and let me know. I'll need you in DC for a briefing on Sunday and on a plane to Bolivia on Monday."

"Okay. Let me see how things shake out here. I know I'm not supposed to volunteer myself for this sort of inter-agency gig, but it involves Sarah Walker - you've assigned me to work with her before."

"Oh. _The Ice Queen?" _Carina rolled her eyes. That title had never seemed less apt. "What is the CIA doing running missions in Montana?"

"You know, it's the _Wild Wild Northwest_, I guess. I'll get back to you soon."

"Okay. Goodbye, Miller."

"Goodbye, Sir."

Carina ended the call and joined Devon and Ellie. She pushed the call from her mind, focusing on Morgan. "What do you think?"

Devon turned to Carina. He had rotated in Ellie's arms and had been hugging her reciprocally. "I'm not sure. I'm afraid the bullet or some fragment, maybe some fragment of bone, although none seemed broken, pierced something, maybe something vital." Carina nodded, thankful for Devon's willingness to use layman's terms, but not encouraged by what he told her.

"Well," Carina said, gesturing toward the chairs in a waiting room across the hall, "let's sit down and hope we hear good news soon - about Morgan and about everyone else. I wonder what's happening on Rushmore?"

* * *

Stephen took command of the Joint Chiefs.

He launched into a story of what had happened that was largely true, but it was one that omitted the Intersect. He told them instead that Fulcrum had planned to use a newly developed form of computer-delivered hypnosis, and hoped to implant post-hypnotic suggestions in each of them. Among the suggestions would be one to be used when they awoke: to forget all that had happened to them on Rushmore - other than the official meeting.

The Chiefs looked skeptical, but the scene, in all its signs of violence and weirdness, lent credence to the story.

As Stephen explained and answered questions, Casey moved about the room, gathering the Fulcrum agents' weapons, checking to see if any were still alive. Evidently, none were; he left each where he had fallen. The smell of blood was in the room, but Casey's calmness and bearing added additional weight to Stephen's words. Besides, the Chiefs were soldiers - violence was not new to them.

Whether they fully believed Stephen was unclear, but they believed _enough, _they submitted: they had obviously been in danger and had obviously been saved. They knew that spooks, CIA and NSA agents, had their secrets; the Chiefs were willing to let it go.

* * *

As Stephen began explaining to the Chiefs, Zondra started toward the exit Sarah had used.

Mary quietly called her name. Zondra paused while Mary got Casey's attention and pointed at Jill. He nodded and moved to stand beside Jill, putting his heavy hand on her shoulder. She sat down in an empty chair at the table, staring blankly in front of her, seeing nothing.

Zondra led the way up to the top, guns out. Mary spoke to her. "Zondra, didn't Jill shoot you? You seem to have taken that pretty well. Not a word."

Without stopping, Zondra nodded. "Yeah, she did, but she's kind of...pathetic. And besides, there were really only two salient things that day."

"Yes?"

"That I failed my Red Test," she glanced back at Mary in apology, "and that Morgan saved me, made sure I failed. The rest doesn't signify."

When they finally got to the top, they heard voices in the distance. They followed the sound and found Sarah wrapping wounds on Chuck's arm and hand. She had torn the sleeves from her shirt and was using them as bandages.

Beside them, on the ground, now visible in the arriving half-light of approaching dawn, was the body of Amy, still dead, and Bryce Larkin. Bryce was supine beside Amy, his face covered in blood. But he was alive. The snaky sound of his labored breathing and the occasional, severe jerks of his body were proof. He was not conscious, however. His hands were securely tied. One of his boots was off, standing beside him and missing its laces. A laptop, closed, was on the ground near Chuck, and he and Sarah were between it and Bryce.

Sarah looked up as they approached, grabbing for her gun - but then she recognized them. She gave them a weary smile. Mary walked up to Sarah, putting her gun away, and wordlessly began to help bandage Chuck.

Zondra looked back over her shoulder at the stairs they had climbed. She was annoyed. "You mean we could have just taken those stairs down instead of crawling through the ventilation shafts? _Shit_, I wish I had known they were here."

Zondra walked to Bryce and looked down at his bloody face, his massively swollen nose. He jerked. "So, what's up with him?"

Chuck answered. "He Intersected himself by accident. Or maybe by mistake. I'm not sure which."

Zondra turned her head to Chuck, incredulous. "No way!"

"Yes," Chuck sighed. "I'd say it's poetic justice, but that's...pretty dark."

"A poetics for bullies," Zondra offered with a shrug, finality in her tone.

Sarah, with Mary's help, secured the bandage on Chuck's arm. "What happened down there? I take it since you are here it's all under control?"

"Yeah, Mr. B took over. He's one seriously impressive man. Nice choice, Mrs. B."

Mary's face clouded but she acknowledged Zondra's comment with a quick, quiet nod.

Zondra pulled her phone from a pocket and turned it on. Once it powered up, she checked her messages. No text from Carina.

Zondra got a funny feeling in her stomach - or, rather, she realized that the funny feeling that had been in her stomach since she parted with Morgan had intensified. She was missing him; she was worried about him. She knew he had a penchant for getting into scrapes and she wanted to be there to protect him.

She put her phone away and looked at Bryce, then at Amy. She stared at Amy for a while as Chuck talked quietly with Sarah and Mary.

_What sort of life is this?_

* * *

As they finished Chuck's bandage, Mary caught Sarah's hand.

She looked directly into Sarah's eyes. "I'm sorry, Sarah. About things, you know…" Mary waved her hand jerkily, indicating..._things_. She saw Sarah nod.

Mary made herself go on. "I meant what I said to Jill. I know you aren't Jill." Pause. "I know you aren't me. I believe you can change, have changed."

Sarah tried to blink back tears; she failed. Mary felt Chuck's hand on her back, rubbing it gently.

He spoke softly but with instant, intense conviction. "You too, Mom."

Now Mary blinked, warm water on her cheeks. She wanted to believe it.

She really did want to believe it.

After a moment, she glanced up and found Zondra looking at her. Both looked away. Zondra moved closer to Chuck and Sarah.

Mary wiped the tears from her eyes and silently walked to Bryce, stared at him.

Her tormentor, torturer.

She stood straight and glanced over her shoulder; no one was watching her. Sarah was explaining about Brown, the coming help. Turning back to Bryce, Mary surreptitiously pulled out her gun; she leveled it deliberately, calmly at Bryce's head.

She could feel, could _hear_, the scars on her back: they were burning, crying out for vengeance. This would be an execution Mary knew was justified, fully deserved. This was no cobblestone alleyway in Bordeaux, the condemned no hapless, imprudent young diplomat.

Her tormentor, her torturer. He _cut _her.

Mary exhaled with purpose and started squeezing the trigger; In her mind, she could hear her unheeded cries as Bryce cut her, her unconsoled weeping in the dark afterward - her cuts bleeding, her tears flowing. What he had done to her, what he had done to Chuck, done to Sarah - done to so many: _he deserved this_. The surface of the world could not bear Bryce Larkin any longer.

As she sighted down the barrel at Bryce's closed eyes, Zondra's hand appeared. She rested it on the gun but did nothing to alter Mary's aim, nothing to stop her. Mary glanced at Zondra. She had not heard Zondra's conversation with Chuck and Sarah end.

Zondra spoke carefully. "Fail this Red Test, Mary. Find another path, another life. Listen to Chuck. You can change, have changed. Don't take the switchback."

Mary swallowed hard. She trembled from head to toe. Zondra removed her hand from the gun. It was almost as if it had never been there. Mary heard Chuck's voice from behind her. "_Mom?_"

Her scars still burning, screeching, she inhaled, released pressure on the trigger, and lowered the gun.

* * *

Carina was nervously handling her phone, trying to decide whether or not to text Zondra (and, so, everyone) with the bad news about Morgan being shot.

She had been waiting, hoping, for good news, so that she could supply it together with the bad.

She glanced to her side. Ellie was leaning against Devon and he had his arm around her. Ellie had her eyes closed but Carina was sure she was not sleeping. The image of the two of them, there for each other, struck Carina.

When she had become a DEA agent, when she began to understand what that meant, she had decided not to care - for herself, for anyone else. She thought it freed her, let her operate without constraint. The truth was that the whole business was a charade. Her not-caring was itself an expression, almost a shout, really, of how much she could care and did care. It was craven self-protection.

She had cared for John in Prague. That was why she bolted after that wonderful week. _A good time, it was just a good time_: that was what she told herself. And she had been telling herself since then that she was having equally good times.

She was not, though. She had kept herself distracted and might have done so for a long time, maybe forever, if Chuck's wake had not brought Casey back into her life. She snorted to herself. _Chuck. The lanky goof. He was a tall Julie McCoy - the cruise director of The Love Boat. _

The doctor entered the waiting room, interrupting Carina's thoughts. Carina stood, along with Devon and Ellie.

The doctor gave them a cautious smile. "First, we think your friend is going to be okay. Don't want to bury the lede, especially around fellow physicians. We think the bullet glanced off the bone, an upper rib, and although it somehow did not break the bone, it chipped it. One of the chips lodged near his heart. We were able to find it, remove it. He's stable; the signs are good. He's a tough, tough little guy."

"You have no idea," Ellie said. "No idea." Ellie grabbed Carina and hugged her. Carina was shocked and...gratified. "Now, call, Carina," Ellie directed, "I know you've been waiting.

* * *

Chuck, despite his injuries and exhaustion, put Bryce over his shoulder and carried him down the stairs, back inside Lincoln's head. He transferred him to Casey, who took a look at Bryce and smiled.

Stephen had just come back up in the elevator. The Chiefs and their support staff were all downstairs. Chuck looked at his dad. They smiled at each other. Chuck watched as Sarah walked to Stephen and handed him Bryce's computer.

"Chuck?" _Jill. _

Jill was standing off in one corner of the room and Chuck had not noticed her.

He faced her. "Jill."

"So, are you okay, Chuck?" Jill did not wait for an answer. She went on, picking up speed, stepping forward. "I tricked Bryce, Chuck. I kept back the 13th slide, I thought it would save you." Jill gave Chuck a hopeful look. "I couldn't let him kill you, Chuck. I...I just wanted you to know that."

Mary stepped forward. "You? You kept back that slide?"

"Mom," Chuck said, interrupting Mary, "let it go."

He gave Jill a weary, weary look - weary not just from the exertions of the night or the exertions since he had gotten the Intersect, but weary five years' worth. "Thanks, Jill. I'm indebted to you for that. Let's call us even."

He turned away and sought out Sarah. She walked to him and took his hands, nodding her agreement with what he said - and did not say.

"But, Chuck," Jill went on, her voice rising, pleading, "can we _talk_? There's a lot I want to tell you, so much I need to explain. The things I did...I didn't _want_ to do them, Chuck."

Chuck turned back to her, still holding Sarah's hands. "But you did them, Jill. You could have said _no._" He paused. "Doesn't the 13th slide prove that?"

Chuck kept his tone guarded: sympathetic but unyielding. Jill winced like she had been struck then stared at him for several beats.

Then she looked at Casey carrying Bryce toward the elevator. Dropping her head, she followed.

* * *

When the elevator returned, Chuck and Sarah and Mary and Zondra were about to get on.

Zondra's phone beeped. She took it out and looked at it. She felt the blood drain from her face.

She stared at the phone as she spoke to the others, who had gotten on the elevator. "Morgan got shot."

She heard everyone gasp and she looked up, tears in her eyes and already on her face. "They say he's going to be okay. But we have to get back. I have to see him." She jumped on the elevator.

Chuck, laptop under his arm, his dirty, bloody face grim, looked at her and punched the elevator button for the bottom.

* * *

Brown punched the keyboard, making sure that there was no trace of the Intersect on the Fulcrum satellite. He checked and double-checked. No trace.

Then he linked the satellite to his Langley computer. He stood up, looked down at Manoosh, still out cold.

Shaking his head, he picked up Manoosh's computer and began to hammer it on the desk. Its parts flew in every direction. Brown found the hard drive and stomped on it, then beat it with his cane. Eventually, it separated into its component parts and he stomped them into tiny pieces.

The Intersect was part of the disease.

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for the longish final regular chapter of our story, Chapter 38, "_La Sagrada Familia?_" Two epilogues will follow.

Chapter Theme: Crowded House, _Pour Le Monde, Pas Pour La Guerre_


	40. Chapter 38: La Sagrada Familia?

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

The final chapter of Book Three. Tying up some loose ends and answering some questions. Epilogues eventually.

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

**La Sagrada Familia?**

* * *

Thursday, late morning

* * *

_One last stop, _Brown thought to himself, his internal words sounding to the tap, tap, tap of his cane on the polished Langley floor, _and then I am going to sleep for a week. Or more. Scoot over, Rip Van Winkle. _

He entered Graham's office.

Graham was glaring at Brown from the moment he opened the door. "What the hell have you been up to, Brown?" The question was asked softly but with menace. "You've effectively been running an unauthorized mission. You've used massive resources, personnel and equipment, and money, and I am only now getting the tail-end of it all? I hope you realize that you will not be going back out that door a Company man."

Brown crossed to a chair as all this was said. He sat down, propped his cane against the arm of the chair, put the stack of folders he was carrying in his lap, and buttoned the last few buttons of his sweater. _Even colder than usual in here._ He looked at Graham, who was impatiently waiting for a response.

"Um, yes, Sir, I do realize that. In fact, I did not come through the door a Company man." He handed Graham the first folder from the stack of folders, "Here is my resignation, effective," he looked at his watch, "ten minutes ago."

Graham gave Brown a disbelieving smirk, but then he opened the folder and glanced at the single page inside it and the smirk vanished. "What? What has been going on?"

"Hold on, Sir, and I will explain." He handed a second folder to Graham, this one stuffed full. "Here is a partial printout of the download of information from Fulcrum's dedicated satellite."

"Wait, what? Satellite? Fulcrum?"

"Yes, Sir, Fulcrum. The information you have there - and that I now have downloaded on my computer - will allow you to gut Fulcrum, put them out of business once and for all. I will say that there are some disturbing, high-profile names on that list, college presidents, government and agency higher-ups, as well as lots of intelligence agency rank-and-file names. But that's for you to sort, as you will."

Graham blustered. "But, but...I don't…" He was thumbing through the file. "Oh, my God. This will create a scandal. Scandals. Purges."

"Yes, Larkin did an amazing job."

"Larkin? Larkin? So, he is a double-agent."

Brown smirked. "Yes, although I would say he is _the _double-agent. He's been running Fulcrum for a long time. His cover has been as a CIA agent. Kinda funny, really, your dark counterpart has been your golden boy…"

Graham flicked his eyes up at Brown but then looked back at the folder.

"Sarah Walker and her partner, along with Zondra Rizzo and Carina Miller and John Casey…"

"Casey? The NSA agent?"

Brown nodded. "The group of them captured Larkin early this morning. He is currently on his way to a supermax facility, along with his longtime partner, Jill Roberts. Larkin's suffered...a mental breakdown. Larkin needs medical attention and..."

Graham put the folder down. "Hold it. Sarah Walker and _her partner?_ Who is that?"

"Chuck Bartowski."

"Bartowski," Graham's voice rose, "is not CIA - he was her target."

"I'd say she got him, Sir." Brown rubbed his sore leg, grinning.

"I'm lost."

"Yes, Sir. And here is Sarah Walker's resignation. Effective a couple of hours ago." He handed Graham the third folder, thin like the first. Graham did not even open it.

"She can't resign. What else is there for her? This is her life, working for me is her life…"

Brown shrugged. "Guess not. She's found a new one."

Light dawned slowly in Graham's eyes. "Bartowski."

"In a word, Sir, yes. Now," Brown paused, the fourth and final folder in his hand, thick like the second, "this last folder is not quite of the same kind as the other three. That second folder will allow you to go out in a blaze of glory. But this final folder will make it clear to you that you have to go out." He handed it to Graham, who took it with a look of puzzlement.

"Inside are your full, actual financial records, personal and CIA. They show a pattern of theft, misappropriation, and cover-up. Some of it is personal - you lining your own pockets. Some of it is Company-related, a fair amount of that Intersect-related.

"You used monies ear-marked for other things to fund your Intersect research. When you could not find enough money that way, you hired Agent Walker out as a hitwoman, gave her jobs you sanctioned that were not appropriately, officially sanctioned, and you took the money for the terminations and you poured most of it into the Intersect."

Graham sat in silence, the folder in his hands but unopened. The folder was shaking.

"Walker does not know this and I don't plan to tell her. She's done. There's no reason for her to look backward. But you, Sir, Langston, are done too. I have copies of that information at several legal firms. They are to send it to the appropriate authorities if I do not contact them. I am going to give you a week. Oversee the finish of Fulcrum. Go out a hero. Then resign, effective immediately. Or else, well, face the consequences."

Graham closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. "_Orion?_"

"Yes, I'm sure he sent me all of that," Brown gestured to the fourth folder.

Graham's posture slumped in defeat. "He claimed he had it. Hinted at it long ago. I thought he might have given it to his children, if not to the son, then...to his daughter, left it with her somehow. But then he...He contacted me and demanded that I call Walker off, end her mission...

"It was a demand from a ghost. I believed he was dead…that they all were or would be dead, the Bartowskis...That's when I had you do it, call Walker off, after he contacted me."

Graham's eyes flashed in frustrated anger. "Son_ of a bitch - Orion!_ He's the one who filled my head with the Intersect, with what it could be, do. Most of this," Graham waved the folder, "I did because of what he told me, chasing a dream he sold me. And now he uses it to ruin me."

"Not ruin, exactly. He's...retiring you - or I am since I guess he left it up to me. But his son has made it possible for you to retire as a hero."

Graham's eyes narrowed. "Some favor. So, did the son have it? The Intersect? Where is it?"

"Destroyed. Every copy, gone. It was never a dream; it was a nightmare. Good riddance." Brown kept his face steady; he could lie if he had to. He would have made a good agent. He was not sorry it had not worked out. He had gotten his taste. It was enough. More than enough.

Graham frowned bitterly. "Damn the Bartowskis," he said, more to himself than to Brown.

* * *

Zondra was sprinting along the hospital hallway.

The nurse at the station behind her was standing, waving, "Wait, who are you? _Are you family?_"

Hearing but not answering, Zondra slowed at the door of Morgan's room. She pushed it open carefully. Morgan was in the bed. Carina was in a chair near the bed. Devon was seated next to her. Ellie was standing by the bed, rearranging Morgan's blanket. All three looked up as Zondra entered. Zondra crossed to stand next to Ellie. Ellie slipped an arm around her. "He's okay. Are you?"

Fighting back a sob, Zondra said she was. "What about everyone else? I mean we got the texts but..." Ellie trailed off.

"Everyone is okay. Chuck and Sarah ran into Morgan's doctor. They'll be here soon. Mary is with them. Stephen and Casey are traveling with Larkin and Jill, making sure they get to the supermax facility. Stephen wants to keep an eye on Larkin. Larkin downloaded the Intersect."

"What? But it's not viable. What did it do to him?"

"Hard to know. He was...um...unconscious, jerky." Zondra put out her hand to touch Morgan's face. "You sure he's going to be okay?"

"Yes, Zondra." Ellie stepped back. "He's all yours."

Ellie turned to Devon and he got up and left the room with her. Carina walked to stand beside Zondra. "He'll do, Z. He'll do."

Zondra turned and shrugged a tired, relieved grin at Carina. "What can I say, the beard does things to me."

Carina smirked. "Please, don't give me any more details." They stood quietly for a moment. Carina, looking down at Morgan, asked: "What are you going to do, Z? I mean about him and you? He's great. But you are a CIA agent."

Zondra frowned with one corner of her mouth. "I know. I'm still trying to work it out. What about you? Casey? He's in love with you, Carina."

Zondra saw Carina blink. Blink again. "Do you really think so? _Love?_"

"Yes, Carina. In fact," Zondra fished in her pants pocket, "he gave me this to give to you." She handed a folded piece of paper to Carina.

* * *

Carina unfolded the paper.

_Breathless_. Like a junior high girl handed a note by her crush in the hallway. He had sent her a text earlier, telling her he was going on with Larkin and Roberts, but the text had been all business, no surprises. Now, this.

The piece of paper was torn from a flight logbook, scrawled in unsharpened pencil.

_Carina,_

_I'm okay._

_Can't stop thinking about you. Never really have since Prague. The last few days have been important to me. Be back asap._

_Faithfully, _

_J._

'_Faithfully'?_ Carina asked herself. Then it hit her. _Semper Fi. _Zondra had used the other word, but Casey had given her his synonym for it. "_Love'_. John Casey loved Carina Miller. _Faithfully._

He had sent her a love letter. _Damn him, he's romancing me again._

Carina re-folded the note. She looked up to find Zondra watching her. Carina could not speak. She put her hand on Zondra's shoulder and squeezed it, then she left the room.

Outside, she found Chuck and Sarah and Mary talking quietly with Ellie and Devon.

* * *

When everyone left the room, Zondra leaned down and kissed Morgan's lips, brushed hers against his.

She felt her heart flutter, an unfamiliar movement. As if in answer, his eyes fluttered, blinked, blinked, opened. He saw her just above him, her face still near his own.

He grinned. "Wow," he said, his voice hoarse, "I expected a light at the end of a tunnel. This is way better." Grinning back at him, Zondra kissed him, exerting more pressure this time. He kissed back. "So, am I alive?"

Zondra huffed good-naturedly, her grin a smile. "Why do you keep asking questions that answer themselves in the asking?"

It took Morgan a minute to process that. "It's a curse, I guess. Doomed to ask the question that makes itself irrelevant." He paused, grimaced slightly. "But I'm okay?"

"Yes, the doctors, including Ellie and Morgan, say you will be okay."

"Boy, that's good."

"Why?"

"Because, although I admit today has been sort of sucky, yesterday was the best day of my life." He smiled but then his smile weakened. She saw him get nervous as he looked at her.

"Yesterday was a very good day, Morgan."

"So, is it all done? Larkin?"

"He Intersected himself. He's unconscious or in a coma or something. Don't know; don't care."

"And everybody? Everybody's okay?"

"Yes, okay. Chuck fought Larkin and Larkin cut him…"

Just then, the door opened and Chuck looked in. He had washed his face at the airport, but he was still dirty and bloody. Sarah came in behind him. They were holding hands.

"Morg, you're awake! Thank God!"

Zondra watched as they took up a place on the other side of Morgan's bed. Sarah reached out and touched Morgan's shoulder. "Glad you're okay."

"Thanks, guys. Chuck, man, you look like a cross between Death and Pig-Pen."

On cue, Chuck started humming the _Peanuts Theme Song. _Morgan joined in but then started to cough.

"Boys," Zondra said, "there'll be time for nerd rejoicing later. Morgan's not up to theme songs."

Sarah nodded at Zondra. "Neither is Charlie Browntowski, here. We'll be back. Chuck needs a doctor to look at those cuts, especially his arm." She pointed at the makeshift bandage. It was wet red again. "The cut's seeping."

Sarah took Chuck's hand carefully and led him away. Morgan looked up at Zondra. "She loves him, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, Morgan, she does. She really does."

"It makes me happy." Morgan's eyes started to close, drooping. "But on TV they say spies don't fall in love…"

Zondra watched him drift back into sleep. She gazed at him then she spoke aloud but to herself. "That's what they say, Morgan. But you can't believe the TV."

* * *

Mary had stepped in to see Morgan but he was sleeping, so she gave Zondra a quick, awkward hug and walked out into the hallway. She walked to the waiting room and sat down. She was alone in it.

Stephen had gone on with Casey to see about Bryce and Jill. The supermax prison was in Florence, Colorado. It would be late in the day, maybe even early on Friday, before Stephen returned. She needed to make a decision.

Stephen had said she was his wife and he had used the present tense. But she did not know what that meant. He had not touched her, really, since he showed up in Bozeman. He had never reacted to her as she had feared he would - he had never really been angry or cold or outwardly bitter. He had never reacted as she dreamed he would - he had not touched her, kissed her, spoken to her as he used to do before everything happened.

Hoping, dreaming, that he could overcome what she had done, could find some way to surmount it, climb over it: that was all foolish. Chuck had apparently forgiven her, more or less. Ellie was on her way - Mary knew her well enough to feel optimistic about that, despite some of the outward signs. It might be possible for Mary to be in their lives, marginally.

She thought they would make room more centrally for Stephen. While it might be wrong to say that they blamed her wholly for Stephen's leaving and absence, it was not far wrong. They would reconcile to him far faster than they could, if they could, to her. The best thing for her to do was what she did best. Slip into shadow. She could re-appear once in a while, maybe holidays or birthdays, but she would not overstep, overstay her welcome in their lives.

She pulled out her phone. In a few minutes, she had a ticket on a plane to New York City. She had old contacts there; she knew the city. She could figure out once she was there what her next step would be. She thought about writing a note to Stephen but then decided that it would be best to just go. _Just go_.

Leaving him was another bad thing she was good at.

* * *

Sarah held Chuck's hand while his arm got stitched.

The cut to his other hand had been cleaned and bandaged but it did not require stitches. As the doctor finished up and as Ellie inspected the stitches, Sarah began to reckon with it all.

She had sent her one-sentence resignation from her phone to Brown. He promised to deliver it directly to Graham.

The Sarah seated beside Chuck was now officially no longer Agent Walker. She was Sarah Walker. She trailed a cloud of aliases, going back to her childhood, to her actual name, Sam. _Samantha_. But that seemed an alias too, so long ago and so little used since that it seemed the name of an ancestor, not of her previous self.

She decided she would stay _Sarah_. She loved it when Chuck said her name. And she would stay _Walker. _For now. And if, in the not-so-distant future, she should be asked to change it, she would. For all its ruptures and agonies, she found that she wanted to be part of Chuck's family, a Bartowski.

Sarah wondered if she would second-guess her decision to quit. Of course, it was possible that she would down the line. But she did not think it likely. It dawned on her as she sat there that she had effectively quit the night she fell asleep in Chuck's bed, back when all this began. That had been her true resignation. What she sent Brown was just follow-up, paperwork.

The doctor finished and left. Ellie double-checked the stitches, then she left too. Devon had gone to get coffee, and the two of them were going to find Mary. Devon had not had time to talk with Mary, and Ellie wanted the two of them to know each other.

They stepped out of the room and into the hallway. Ellie was disappearing around a corner.

"Can we sit for a minute, Sarah? I'm feeling a little light-headed." They stopped and sat in chairs in the hallway.

"So says Mr. Intersect," she commented flatly. "Speaking of, how is your head. Any Intersect-related pain or anything?"

Chuck shook his head. "No, I feel fine. I mean I feel like shit, but, you know."

She looked down at her own dirty, torn clothes. "Yes, I know. But, good, you feel okay?"

He nodded. "I do, although there is something...You're coming back with me, right, back to Burbank?"

"Yes, sweetie, I am."

Chuck smiled, and she saw him register the endearment, the pet name.

"Well, then, sweetheart," he paused and Sarah's huge smile and nod was her response to his endearment, "I'd like...to ask you to move in with me. I asked Ellie about it before we headed to Rushmore, and she was all for it. We'll get a place of our own soon." Excitement animated his features.

"I'm hoping Dad and I can go into business together. Between us, I'm sure we can make money and do some good. Put the Intersect behind us."

Sarah felt a thrill of certainty, and of satisfaction. "I'm sure of that too. And don't worry, I have some money, Chuck. If you want, when we first get back, we can stay at _Maison 23_. Brown said it's paid for until the end of next month. Then we can relocate to Ellie's - unless we find a place of our own first." Sarah drifted off for a moment, her imagination active. _A place of our own. A home. My home._

They sat in a mutual daydream until a hospital employee started mopping one end of the hallway, and started whistling a merry melody. The sound brought them back to the _here-and-now_.

Chuck: "I guess there are really only two copies of the Intersect now. The one in my head and the one in Bryce. Brown said that the Fulcrum agent he stopped was downloading the program onto a laptop, but the agent wasn't downloading it into his head. Brown destroyed that copy. The program erased itself from Bryce's laptop, evidently just after he downloaded it. I need to ask Dad how that works. It vanishes off the copying machines after it's downloaded too, self-erases..."

Sarah frowned but chuckled. "The Intersect moves in mysterious ways." She paused. "But Bryce's version is not the same as yours?"

"No, mine is, evidently, viable. I assimilated the Intersect, it did not assimilate me. I fear it went the other way for Bryce. I don't know if I would have been able to do it if you hadn't found me, called for me." He looked at her, his eyes full of her. "_I love you, Sarah Walker._" Sarah smiled. Chuck raised his eyebrows in mock-suspicion. "If that _is _your real name..."

She looked directly into his eyes, hers and her heart open to him. "It is. _For now_."

It took a second, and then a smile covered Chuck's entire face.

* * *

Carina called her boss at the DEA.

"Good morning, Sir. I'm calling about the deep-cover mission. I am going to turn that down and finish my vacation."

"Really, Miller. That's...unlike you. Usually, you are chomping at the bit. Are you sure? There are other agents, but you are my best."

"I appreciate that. I do. But...I am sure. And, just a heads-up: I've been doing the deep-cover stuff for a long time. So long that I have sort of misplaced who I am and stopped considering who I might be. When I come back, I'd like to talk about a different assignment."

Silence. "Really? Alright. I'll have my administrative assistant schedule a meeting."

"Thank you, Sir."

"You're welcome. And, Carina?"

She was startled by her first name. "Yes?"

"Professionally, I'm disappointed. Personally, well, let's just say I'm not disappointed."

"Thanks. I will see you when I see you."

She ended the call. She texted Casey: **Got your note. Waiting for you. **

She looked at the words after she sent them. Then she searched among available emojis for a kissy face.

_I can be romantic too. _She sent it.

* * *

Sure of Morgan, and leaving him in Zondra's hands - she would not leave his room - Chuck and Sarah took a cab back to the hotel. Carina was going to drive Ellie and Devon and Mary back soon, but Ellie wanted to check on Morgan one last time.

Chuck and Sarah entered the room they had left a lifetime ago, the day before. They showered together, washing each other (careful of Chuck's stitches), but were too tired to let the suds tempt them to more vigorous activity.

They fell into bed together and fell asleep, wrapped tightly around each other.

* * *

Thursday evening

* * *

Knocking. Knocking.

For a moment, Chuck thought he was back in his internal battle with the Intersect - but no, it was a knock on the door of his room. He unwound himself from Sarah and got up. She woke too.

"Chuck, Chuck! It's Dad."

Chuck put on his robe and opened the door. Sarah pulled the covers up. "What is it, Dad, something with Larkin? A problem?"

"No. Well, there is a problem with Larkin, but not one we need to talk about right now. Where is your mom?"

"She was supposed to come back with Carina."

"She did. But she's gone. I can't find her anywhere. I was hoping she'd left word with you. There was no note. Nothing."

Sarah sat up, one hand holding the covers against her. "We need to get to the airport. Go get the keys from Carina." Stephen nodded and ran.

Chuck turned. "The airport?"

"If I were her, if I were facing what she's facing, that's where I would go. I'd run, Chuck. I know: I ran for years."

Chuck closed the door and they got dressed hurriedly. When they got downstairs, Stephen was in the car outside, waiting for them. They quickly got inside, Chuck in front, Sarah in the rear.

Stephen headed toward the airport. "I've got to stop her. If she leaves, I'll never find her again, not unless she wants me to, and she won't."

They were silent for a moment or two. "Dad, what about Bryce?"

Stephen took a deep breath. "He woke up. I was worried about what would happen. We had him strapped down. When he woke up, he started talking. At first, I thought he was asking for you. I could just make out your name. But then I realized he was talking _to_ you.

"You were in his head, the way I was in yours. And he couldn't stand it. He thrashed and wailed like he was on fire, burning alive. It was awful." Stephen shuddered. "He...cursed you over and over. He kept saying you were wrong, wrong about everything. He was right and you were wrong. And then he screamed - a long, piercing 'Wrong!' - and he fell back. He never woke up. Brain activity ceased and his heart stopped beating a few minutes later. He's dead, Chuck."

A long silence.

Sarah reached over the seat to rub the back of Chuck's neck. "So, Jill keeping back that 13th slide. That just endangered Chuck, it didn't help him?" Stephen nodded. "But it's what killed Bryce?"

Stephen nodded again. "It certainly played a key role. But I guess she believes she helped Chuck"

Chuck spoke softly. "Let's let her believe it."

A longer silence.

"There's the turn, Dad," Chuck said, pointing. They parked the car and ran into the airport. They headed right to the security check. Mary was in line.

"Mary!"

She looked up.

* * *

Mary saw Stephen - and Chuck and Sarah. Fearing a scene, and since she had a little time before her flight, she stepped out of line and walked back to meet them.

"Where are you going, Mary?"

"Away, Stephen. I need to go."

Chuck looked at her. "I don't want you to go, Mom. But this...this is between you two. Sarah and I will go and grab a coffee. And, Mom, if you leave," he stepped to her and hugged her tight, "know that I love you." He stepped back. Sarah gave Mary a hug and then the two of them walked away. Mary was now left to face Stephen.

"Leaving again?" Stephen's question was choked but without rancor.

Mary shrugged. _Touch me, Stephen. Ask me to stay. _"I destroy things, Stephen. I have amply proven that. Maybe the family, our family, has a chance now, but the chance is better without me. There's no coming back from me; what I've done is unforgivable."

He looked at her. "What if I want you, despite all of it?" _Tell me you want to stay. Give me some sign._

"Then you'd be making a mistake," Mary responded, her voice flat, her face blank. "A mistake I can't let you make. I can at least save you from me - this time." She swallowed hard but looked down to hide it. "I am sorry for Costa Brava, Stephen. I know those are just words, but they're all I have to give." She looked up.

He gazed at her. They were inches from each other but years apart. "Mary, family matters. It matters. What happened, happened. Let's not worry about sorrow and forgiveness, let's worry about tonight and tomorrow." _I don't know how to reach you._

Mary lowered her eyes again. "I can't let go of yesterday, Stephen. So, let me go. Don't try to find me." Her voice trailed off, her regret palpable but ineffable, unfathomable.

"Mary, don't." She looked in his eyes, his emotions swirling but unsortable, unnameable.

Frost turned from Orion and retook her place in the security line.

* * *

One week later

* * *

Brown was standing in the cool, bright midday DC sunshine, standing before his father's headstone. The cemetery was vast, green. Trees swayed in the breeze.

Brown took the newspaper from his sweater pocket and placed it atop of the stone, the day's headline facing up:

**CIA Director Graham Retires Unexpectedly**

Beneath the headline, in smaller type:

_After Successful Interagency Purge of Double-Agents,  
DC Intelligence Community Scrambling for Leadership_.

Brown took a moment, remembering his dad. He closed his eyes, then opened them.

Brown spoke, his voice sad and happy. "I'm out, Dad. Retired. I did what you wanted. I should have been bold enough to do it before you died. It took your death to get me to do what I should have done long, long ago. But, I know, I know," he waved a hand in a placating gesture, "you never liked apologies or the maudlin stuff. What'd you used to say? 'Damn the Kleenex, full speed ahead.'"

Brown laughed and, using his cane, lowered himself to the ground, seating himself beside the grave. He looked around the scene for a moment, adjusting to it, reorienting himself.

"So, here's what we'll do. We'll let all that go. I've got a story to tell you. You won't believe it. It's kind of a spy story and kind of not.

"It's really a story about families, biological and otherwise, about good and evil, love and loneliness and loss; about the power of choice and its spoilation. It's damn twisty, and I may get lost or mixed up in telling it, but it's also a damn good story. You always liked my stories.

"Anyway, this one starts with a young guy in Burbank, California - Chuck, by name - just after an unhappy birthday party, and with the arrival of a fateful email…"

* * *

End

Of

_Book Three: Family Curse?_

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

_In loving memory of my father, DFJ_

* * *

A/N: Two epilogues to follow. Someday in the not-so-distant future.

Thanks! How about sharing thoughts or reactions? Love to hear from you.

Chapter Themes: Crowded House, _Fingers of Love/_XTC, _In Loving Memory of a Name_


	41. Epilogue One: Solid Air

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

EPILOGUE ONE

**Solid Air**

* * *

Six Months Later

* * *

Stephen Bartowski sank his toes deeper into the sand, burrowing beneath the hot upper layer to a cooler layer underneath.

The sun beat down the beach. He had on a slightly oversized white t-shirt and blue board shorts. Adjusting his sunglasses, he stared out at the Gulf of Mexico.

He was seated in a low, fold-out deck chair beneath a large umbrella on a Fair Hope, Alabama, white sand beach. Chuck had badgered him into taking some time off and even gone to the trouble of arranging the trip. _The Grand Hotel._ Chuck had been right: Stephen needed the time off. The past six months had been long, difficult.

He had spent long days and nights building a new Intersect removal device, but it was more tricky than he expected because of Chuck's assimilation of the Intersect. It was no longer clear where Chuck ended and the Intersect began. Chuck and the Intersect were, effectively, one. The assimilation complicated matters but simplified them too. There seemed to be no adverse physical effects: Chuck's brain was Chuck's brain - and extensive testing by Stephen and by Ellie had detected no physical problems. Whatever damage had been done early had healed: Chuck was in no danger from within.

Stephen worried about danger from without. That Chuck had the Intersect in his head was a Bartowski family secret, a secret among the extended family, including Morgan, Zondra, Carina, Casey, and Brown. Stephen trusted them all. But _still_: still, something could go wrong.

Jill was in the supermax prison, and she seemed intent on helping Chuck, so Stephen thought that she was unlikely to share the secret. Unlikely, but Stephen did not trust her. She was...suggestible, and although she spent 23 hours of each day in solitary confinement, she would soon move to a regular prison and become part of its population. That could create trouble.

Of course, it helped that it all sounded incredible Even if Jill were willing to share the secret, she had no proof - and sharing it would surely make her seem unhinged.

Chuck had destroyed the Fulcrum Intersect computer at Outlook. He had also destroyed the copy of it he made there. The CIA had given the project up for dead after Graham retired. They seemed in a hurry to bury the whole business.

Eventually, Stephen built a machine he trusted to work on Chuck, recalibrating it not to remove the Intersect _per se_ but rather the horde of data in Chuck's head. No data he had accessed could be removed - Sarah's file, for example, was now in Chuck's memory - but the other, unaccessed data could be removed.

And so it was. The redesigned machine worked. Sarah had been anxious, though Chuck, once assured that no needles were involved, had been calm and kept her calm. Everything went smoothly on the day of removal, and subsequent tests had shown no ill-effects. What remained of the Intersect was, Stephen now thought, no longer alien to his son and no longer alienable. The accessed data remained, as did various habits and skills that the Intersect had transferred from father to son.

Perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not, those transfers seemed to help cement Stephen's relationship to Chuck. They understood one another deeply and intuitively. Each had a sure sense of the other. It was a good thing - a positive benefit of the danger the Intersect had created for Chuck, the various sufferings it had caused Stephen.

Once that was done, he and Chuck began to work on their business. It was a going concern, starting to show a profit and attracting considerable attention. Stephen reached into the pocket of his t-shirt and removed one of their business cards. He kept one on him, just in case.

**MODEST TECH**

Bartowski and Son, Computer Engineers

Stephen was proud of the business and proud of his son. Working with him every day, although of course they sometimes annoyed each other, was a joy.

He had grown closer to Ellie too, talking with her about the Intersect and the mind and the brain, her work, Devon. He was fascinated by his daughter, her fine mind, her keen observation, her depth of character. She was a wonder.

She also made him miss Mary worse. Mother and daughter were so alike.

Missing Mary was the gray-somber, omnipresent background to all that was good in his current life. He thought about her constantly. It had grown worse lately, if that was possible, because marriage was in the air: Ellie and Devon recently got engaged. Chuck and Sarah got engaged soon after. There were plans underway for a double wedding.

_Fitting, _Stephen mused to himself, _given all the doubling, the duplicity haunting our family life. This time the double will be a good thing. It will be a happy day. _And it would - although he knew his happiness would be incomplete if Mary was not there. So far, no one had heard from her or heard of her.

He sighed and wedged his feet deeper into the cool sand, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Closing his eyes, he let the sound of the water, the breeze, the children playing, pull him under. His shoulders relaxed, and relaxation spread down through him, liquid, easy and warm.

He felt himself settle heavy in the chair, his consciousness unmoored from his body, adrift. He recollected Mary as she had been that first day in his lab.

He cracked one eye open for a moment and gazed along the edge of the water. A beautiful woman was walking along, away from him, sunhat in hand, tracing a path alongside the beach foam deposited by the incoming and outgoing water, kicking at it idly. She moved beautifully, with taut economy, as if she was taking measured steps through blue, solid air.

Stephen closed his eye and grew heavier still.

The woman reminded him of Mary but for once, maybe because he was so relaxed, his heart did not clench at the thought of her, he did not ache. He just wished she was with him, and he drifted into sleep, daydreaming of making love to her years ago, of her desperate, gentle passion.

He woke up later, not sure for how long he had been asleep. The shade from his umbrella had traveled, exposing his legs to the sun. They were pink, sunburnt. He was reluctant to move, though, still heavy from his nap, anchored there to the beach. But he thought it would be good to get out of the sun, shower, and dress for dinner. If he let himself sit much longer, the relaxation would deform in the dark to melancholy.

He looked out across the water. The sun was heavy too, settling into the Gulf.

Stephen stood and brushed off his bottom, slipped his feet into the sandals beside his chair. He walked off the beach and into the hotel. The arctic-cold of southern air-conditioning met him as he entered the impressive, ornate lobby, gold on green. He stood still for a second, taking off his sunglasses and letting the cool air absorb his sunbaked heat. He noticed the woman he had glimpsed earlier. She was seated in the bar, at the bar, her hat now on her head - _off outside, on inside? _\- and Stephen, shrugging to himself, deciding without quite deciding, walked into the bar. He stopped behind her, just off to the side.

"Hi! May I buy you a drink?"

The woman stiffened but did not turn around. He could only see her hat and the opaque wrap she had on over her one-piece bathing suit.

"Do you often offer to buy strange women drinks?"

Stephen felt himself color, his face suddenly color-coordinated with his legs. "No, to be honest, you are the first - at least, the first in a really, really long time."

The woman still did not turn to face him. "And why is that, may I ask?"

"Long story, I'm afraid. A really long story."

She shrugged, her shoulders rising to touch the edges of her hat. "Really? Most sad stories _are_ long stories."

"How do you know my long story is sad?" Stephen tried to make himself laugh and succeeded - half-way. "It might be a long _happy_ story."

She shrugged again, still not turning around. It was maddening; she was maddening. Her putting him in mind of Mary made his offer to buy her a drink at once more exciting and more upsetting.

"Happy stories never seem long," she declared finally, a verdict.

"Well, I'm guessing this conversation is starting to seem long to you," Stephen said, affecting a lightness of tone. "I'm sorry if I bothered you."

The woman shrugged one more time - the third - and Stephen started to walk away.

"Don't go," she said, "I'd like to hear that story, even if it is long, even if it is sad. If you want, I'll trade you my long, sad story for yours."

Stephen turned. The woman turned. It was Mary. Stephen froze, unsure how he had failed to know it was her. Unsure it was her. Unsure he was himself. Unsure. The room was a merry-go-round, all dazzling lights, and colors, all off-key calliope music.

_Mary!_

Mary. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the waves. Maybe it was the nap and the daydream. Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was time.

He embraced her, knocking her hat off as he swept her up off the stool and into his arms.

She squeezed him back, tentatively, then more strongly, then with all her strength. He felt her trembling.

"Mary, Mary," he wanted just to repeat her name, "Mary, how are you here?"

"How are you, Stephen?"

"Chuck sent me on vacation."

Mary, still trembling, stepped back. She tilted up her head and half-smiled. She looked better than she had in Bozeman, despite - maybe in part because of - the obvious flush in her cheeks.

"I'm here for a possible mission - an infiltration, or so I was told. Actually, I...I actually haven't been able to work, really, not since Rushmore. My heart's...just not in it. But I got an email, and a ticket...and…" she stopped herself, shook her head and laughed, a genuine laugh, "...and..._Chuck_."

Stephen caught her meaning. "You mean - he did this? Set this up? How did he find you?"

"He's your son, Stephen."

"Yes, and yours, Mary." He looked at her and she looked back, her eyes as open as he could remember.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bartowski?" Stephen turned to find the bartender standing there, a photograph in his hand. "It _is_ you, right?"

Stephen nodded. "Yes, it's..._us_. The Bartowskis." He glanced at Mary but she was nodding. "How did you know?"

"I was sent this photograph," the young man said, extending it to them. Mary took it and held it so that she and Stephen could see it at the same time. It was the one photograph taken at their courthouse wedding long ago. In it, they stood gazing at each other and holding hands, Mary in her simple cream sundress and Stephen in his slightly rumpled navy suit.

Stephen stared at the picture, as did Mary. The bartender cleared his throat. "I was also told to give you this." He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a phone. Stephen picked it up and turned it on. After it started, the screen displayed a notification - a video message.

"Thanks, we'd both like a drink, I think. Champagne, Mary? A bottle?" She nodded eagerly, her eyes soft, still staring at the photograph.

They moved to a table in the corner, caught in the light of the sinking afternoon sun. They sat down. "Shall I?" Stephen asked, waving the camera. Mary put the photograph down, then looked at him. "Yes."

He touched the screen and a moment later Chuck appeared. He occupied the whole screen at first, but then he stepped backward, revealing Sarah and Ellie and Devon. He sat down beside Sarah and then he began: "Mom, Dad, we hope you find each other and get to see this. We're all getting married in a few months. All at the same time. But, you know, not all to each other, I mean, I am going to marry Sarah, and…"

"Chuck!" Ellie broke in. "Just say what we wanted you to say."

"Sorry, El. So, we all want you at the wedding." He glanced at Ellie, looking confused. "Is it 'wedding' or is it 'weddings'?"

"Chuck!" This time it was Sarah.

"Sorry, Sarah. Anyway, we want you both there. We'd really...love it if you came _together. _But we'd still be happy if you were just both there. It'd make our big day. So, Dad, talk to Mom. Mom, talk to Dad. For us, just talk to each other, please. We love you. Maybe you...can't love each other anymore, but, for our sake, find a way to put the past to rest. Bye!"

All four waved, and then the video ended. The bartender arrived just after it did and put two flutes for champagne on the table, filling them from a bottle, and leaving the bottle on the table. The setting sunlight and the poured champagne were the same golden hue. Stephen picked up his glass. He extended it to Mary. "A toast?"

"To what, Stephen?"

He looked at her, trying to let her see the resolve in his eyes. "To stories. I want you to tell me yours. I know I've run from knowing it - run from it all along. I was afraid to know."

Mary clinked his glass with hers. "To stories."

Stephen sipped the cool champagne and so did Mary. She spoke carefully. "Are you sure, Stephen? I have...a lot of baggage; I had a lot when we got married. I have more now. There are going to be chapters that you won't like, chapters that are...dark, sad...shameful."

He closed his eyes and nodded. "I know. But here's the thing: I'm in love with the heroine."

Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Stephen. _Present tense? _Even now?"

He reached out and took her hand. "Always."

Mary squeezed his hand. "Me too."

They talked past the setting of the sun, past the last drops of champagne, past the worst of the pain.

They left the bar together, hands clasped.

* * *

The bartender, waiting for them to leave so that he could close the bar, pulled his phone from his apron and snapped a picture of them leaving together.

He pulled a piece of paper out of his apron and dialed Chuck Bartowski's number. He sent the photograph to it. He put his phone and the paper back in his apron. _They seem like a nice family. Weird, but nice. Easiest hundred bucks I ever made._

He started wiping down the tables.

* * *

A/N: Epilogue Two soon.

Epilogue Theme: John Martyn, _Solid Air_

(For the anonymous reviewer who pined for Bryce to have shown some contrition: read Stephen's narration of Bryce's final moments again and note the ambiguity of Bryce's final word - accusation or confession?)


	42. Epilogue Two: Unguarded Kisses

What if the Intersect had been..._different_? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?

* * *

**Chuck Amuck**

* * *

EPILOGUE TWO

**Unguarded Kisses**

* * *

Three (more) months later

* * *

Morgan rubbed his hands on his apron, red staining the fabric. "Shit."

"Morgan, for a man with a gift for food, you sure make a mess," Zondra noted, pointing her chin at the stain. "But," she waved a tortilla chip in the air, "messy or not, you make a mean salsa. Folks will love this."

They were sitting side by side in the kitchen of _El Compadre_, successful restaurant, on the opposite side of the table from a woman who looked like Zondra. "Here, Aurora," Zondra said, dipping the chip into the salsa and scooping it, "take a bite." The chip was dripping salsa on the table. Aurora leaned in and opened her mouth. Zondra popped the chip in. Aurora crunched on it for a minute, her eyes brightening. "Mmmmm. You were right, Zondra, he's a wonder, your pocket rocket. Our new chef."

Zondra glanced at Morgan and saw him drop his head in embarrassment. "An undiscovered culinary genius, until I discovered him. I told you," she said to her older sister, "_trust the Morg - you will be assimilated._"

Aurora rolled her eyes. "You have been, Zondra. Who knew you could be so completely..._nerded._"

"You have no idea, Aurora. Every inch of me…" The sisters leaned toward each other.

"Whoa. Whoa. Okay. No frank sister talk when the topic is in the room, please," Morgan gushed out, his embarrassment growing. The sisters smiled at each other, Aurora's smile the same mysterious smile of Zondra's, the one Morgan loved but still did not understand.

Aurora laughed. "Don't worry, Morgan. She wouldn't tell tales unless she was bragging." Aurora waved her hands, gesturing out of the kitchen toward the dining room. "So, Morgan, we obviously have room for the rehearsal dinner, but what do folks want to eat?"

"They requested Zondra's enchilada recipe," Morgan said, "so I'll make that. But we'll throw in a bunch of other items. I've had lots of ideas."

Zondra reached over and put her hand on Morgan's shoulder. "I wish Mom had known you, Morgan. She'd have been crazy about you. She would also have thought you were crazy." Zondra leaned over and kissed Morgan. She looked around at the kitchen, then at her sister. "I shouldn't have sold you my half of the business all those years ago, Aurora. I know Mom wanted us to run it together. But I thought my…" she dropped her voice to a whisper, double-checking that no one else was in earshot, "...my life belonged to the CIA. Thanks for letting me buy back in, and for giving Morgan a shot in the kitchen."

Aurora chuckled and waved her hand at Zondra. "This is the way it was supposed to be. I wanted us to run it together as much as Mom. Our Italian family running our Mexican restaurant. That's why Mom gave you, not me, that enchilada recipe. She was hoping you'd bring it home, to _El Compadre_. And she'd have been happy you brought The Morg home, too." She smiled, this time in obvious satisfaction. "Alright, so we're set for the rehearsal dinner?"

Morgan nodded. "Yes, I've bought everything special. Early prep's finished. I'll come by tomorrow and oversee things until I have to go to the rehearsal."

"So," Aurora said, "you're Chuck's best man. Who's Devon's?"

"His dad, Woody."

"_Woody_?" Aurora asked, trying not to smile.

Morgan did smile, then added. "His mom's name is _Honey._"

The three of them burst out laughing, each of them looking around to make sure no one heard what caused the laugh.

"Jesus," Aurora said, catching her breath, "are his parents _porn stars_?"

Morgan was trying not to be loud. "I know, I know. And think! He's _Woody Wood_comb and she's _Honey _Wood_comb. _It's porn or some screwy nature documentary."

They lost control of themselves again. When they calmed down, Zondra checked her watch then grabbed Morgan's hand. "Let's go, Morgan. The realtor will show us that apartment, the one near Chuck and Sarah's, and Ellie and Devon's. I have a good feeling."

"Me too." He smiled at her and she smiled back. They left the kitchen together. Aurora watched them go with her own happy smile, then grabbed another chip and scooped more salsa. She crunched the chip and salsa ran down her chin. "God," she said through her mouthful of the chip, almost moaning, not even wiping her chin, "that _is_ damn good salsa."

* * *

John took Carina's hand as the plane to Burbank began its final descent.

She was happy. Happy to be with him, happy to be on the way to the double wedding. She'd been wanting to spend more time with John and missing everyone in Burbank.

Carina was now working as an instructor at the Quantico DEA training school, teaching agents the How-To of deep-cover assignments. She liked the job, liked it a lot, but the drive between there and DC ate up even more hours of already long days. She hated that because she wanted to spend her time with John. That was surprising, or it would have surprised the old Carina. But it was true, although she was practically living with him and had been for a few months.

John had retired from the NSA not long after the Rushmore fight with Fulcrum, with Larkin. He had been working part-time at a gun range and enjoyed the work there, but he had dedicated himself to writing. A memoir.

A memoir. Carina had trouble imagining it at first. To be honest, she feared pages covered with repeated grunts. But when he let her read the first chapter, it moved her. The prose was terse, leathery, economical to the point of vanishing, but it packed power. The working title of the memoir was _Thinker, Trailer, Soldier, Spy. _Carina was working on him, trying to get him to change the title. But she thought the book had a chance of being published. Writing it seemed to do John good too. Each chapter seemed like the laying-down of a burden.

They had been talking about getting rid of their separate places and getting a place together nearer Quantico. It was talk, but not just talk. Carina expected it to happen.

She put her hand around her other hand, the one in John's. They felt the plane descend. Carina leaned her head on John's shoulder and glanced up at him. "Love ya, Carina," he breathed. She smiled and raised herself to kiss him. She still had not said the words back - but she knew one day she would.

* * *

Ellie was standing in front of a full-length mirror in her bedroom.

Her mom was behind her, making minute adjustments to Ellie's wedding gown. Sarah sat on the bed in her own, watching Ellie fuss with her mother, trying to hide a grin.

"Ellie, you have not gotten fat. You are exactly the same size as you were when you tried this on two days ago. Stand still and let me get it straight."

"Mom!" Ellie said in exasperation.

Sarah's grin grew, despite her hope to hide it. Her old ability to contain her emotions, keep them from others, even from herself, seemed to have abandoned her. Or, maybe, she had abandoned it. She just did not need it anymore.

Her grin resulted not only from Ellie and Mary's fuss, but from Sarah's own surprising realization that Ellie was more nervous about getting married than Sarah was. Not that Sarah had no butterflies. She did. _Some_. But her butterflies were not numerous, and they seemed to have alighted, landed, beating their wings slowly, not all aflutter. Ellie's evidently flew in butterfly dogfights, climbing and diving and rolling, chasing each other.

Ellie was certain Sarah was just better at hiding her nerves, her butterflies, and Sarah did not disabuse her of that assumption. Sarah just _knew_, the way she had known since the beginning, known about Chuck. She had fought with the knowledge, but when she finally acknowledged it, the deep ruptures in her, years in the making, had healed, become whole, she became one person, not two, or three or however countless many she had been over the years.

Sarah was a little nervous. Mostly, she was excited. She had been ever since Chuck's proposal on their weekend getaway to the California wine country, to the Tri-Valley, to Pleasanton. Chuck had proposed to her on the balcony of a villa there. It had been perfect.

Since then, she had been eager for the day when she got to follow-up her _yes _with an _I do. _One more day to get through, then it would be The Day.

"Mom, stop. I can do it." Sarah looked up. Mary turned and smirked at her and Sarah laughed out loud. After a moment, Ellie did too. "Sorry, Mom. I'm just nervous. I want everything to go well. I have this fear that it will all somehow turn into a fiasco."

"No, Ellie, it won't. It will be wonderful, just like you and Sarah have planned. Relax. You are marrying a wonderful man - although if you let his parents suggest baby names, I will revert to spy and hunt you down, daughter of mine - and you two will have a wonderful life." She turned to Sarah again. "You too, Sarah, except for the naming thing. Chuck's parents know how to name."

"_Chuck's _parents?" Sarah asked, innocence on her face, mischief in her emphasis.

"Well, okay, maybe that's not great. But, C'mon, Sarah, I hear you say his name, the way you say it. You make it a great name."

Sarah blushed, pleased by the remark. "Thanks, Mary. I love him. I love him so much."

Ellie turned to allow Sarah to see the gown but she was waving her arms as she did. "We know, we know. Remember, when you two moved from _Maison 23, _your bedroom was right next door to mine."

Sarah's blush increased but she narrowed her eyes above a full smile. "And yours to mine."

Mary blushed. "Enough, girls. Now, Sarah, stand up. Good. God, you are both so beautiful. Sarah, Emma's going to be so excited when she sees you."

* * *

Devon was at the bar, getting the third round.

Chuck and Stephen and Jacob Brown sat at a table. Morgan was to join them soon.

Chuck looked at his phone. He was expecting a text from Sarah, telling him that Emma and Molly had arrived.

Although Chuck and Sarah had done everything they could think of, they could not find Sarah's dad for the wedding. That was the one spot on their sunbright happiness. Despite her father's disastrous parenting, she would have liked him there. Chuck hoped that messages he had left with known associates of her fathers might produce him at the wedding but it was unlikely. None of his associates had seen him in a long time.

As Chuck looked at the phone, the expected text arrived. Emma and Molly were at Ellie's apartment. Chuck put the phone away.

Devon came back followed by a waiter with beers on a tray. Devon sat and the waiter distributed the bottles, taking the empty ones away.

"So, Jacob," Stephen said, continuing his conversation with Brown, 'what are you doing with yourself in retirement."

Brown shrugged. "Not much. I had things to see about in Boston, things I had left undone after my dad died. But that's all taken care of now, and I am trying to decide if I'll stay in DC or if I'll pull up stakes and find new horizons."

Stephen glanced at Chuck and Chuck nodded. "Have you ever thought about living here? Modest Tech is getting to be too much for us to handle. Sarah has been helping but her classes at college are taking up a lot of her time."

"She's studying psychology?" Jacob asked.

"Yes, she wants to work as an Intellectual Disability Therapist, working with children. Between her classes and her volunteer time at a local daycare, she's not got much time left over for MT. We could use another set of hands, and gifted hands at that. You should think about it."

* * *

Brown looked at the father and son. He liked sunshine and felt pasty. He also liked the Bartowskis - a lot. The invitation to the double-wedding had delighted him. _Living in LA? Dad would hate it, but he'd like them, like the work. _"Let me think about it - but I'll say that I'm flattered and that I'll probably say _yes._"

Chuck picked up his bottle and held it out. "Well, here's to a _yes._" Four bottles clinked together.

* * *

Chuck saw Morgan come in, wave. Waving back, Chuck was struck by the thought: _I'm marrying Sarah Walker. _That thought made him feel like himself, the self he both was already and was still becoming, the way Sarah herself always did.

* * *

Later, Chuck stood in happy silence outside their apartment, next to the fountain, when Sarah came out of Ellie's apartment.

Devon had come in and told her Chuck was back. Mary left earlier - she and Stephen were having late drinks with Woody and Honey.

Emma was behind Sarah, holding a sleeping Molly. Emma smiled at Chuck. They knew each other from previous visits and were fond of each other. "Hey, Chuck," she whispered. She kissed his cheek and he kissed her cheek and then Molly's head.

"Glad you guys are here safe."

"Thanks. I'll take her in and put her down. Then I'll put myself to bed. Big days coming up."

Chuck nodded. Emma went inside. Chuck turned and looked at Sarah. She had seated herself by the fountain and was looking down into the water. "How was the final fitting?"

Sarah looked up with a smile. "There were two minutes where I thought it might be _final._"

"Oh, Mom and Ellie?"

Sarah nodded. "Yeah, but it wasn't bad. They're both - we're all excited, jumpy."

Chuck knelt down in front of her, raising his eyebrows. "I can take you inside and do something about that..._jumpy_."

Sarah said nothing. She just grabbed him and pulled him to her, kissing him as deeply as she could, unguardedly, hoping he could feel and taste how much she loved him.

Chuck pulled away when the kiss ended and looked at her with dilated eyes. "Wow. We should go inside. I want to be..." he sneaked a look around, making sure the coast was clear, "...well,...atop you, beneath you, behind you, beside you…"

"Why, Chuck Bartowski, are you _prepositioning_ me?"

"You could say that," he replied with a naughty smile.

"And with my mother and sister in the apartment?"

His smile vanished. "Oh, I forgot. But I can be quiet."

Sarah smirked at him. "Hasn't happened yet. For either of us."

He pursed his lips. "No, I guess not. But you're staying with Ellie tomorrow night, after the rehearsal dinner, right, at Mom and Dad's? Tarzana?"

"Yes, so you'll have to...manage yourself for the next couple of days. But I guarantee, the wedding night will be so worth it."

Chuck's dilated eyes became dreamy. She gave him a quick kiss. "Tell you what. We can snuggle - and I'll even let you talk while we do."

He grinned. "Deal!"

* * *

The wedding ended: two pairs of _I do_'s vowed, new lives started.

The revels were underway. Brown stood off to the side, drinking another glass of wine. Couples surrounded him, dancing around him. Swaying, swinging. Stephen and Mary. Chuck and Sarah. Ellie and Devon. Carina and Casey. Zondra and Morgan. Love filled the room.

He watched the couples sway, swing. At one point, he saw Carina whisper something to Casey and they stopped dancing. Casey stood at attention, then gave Carina an amazing smile and embraced her, kissed her. Brown toasted them with his glass although they had no attention for anyone else. He was standing there, full of wine, the wine causing him to sway too, swing, when a lovely blonde-haired woman, a few years younger than him, walked up.

"Are you Jacob Brown? I'm sorry we didn't get introduced earlier. I'm Emma, Sarah's mom. Would you like to dance?"

Brown looked down at his cane. Emma followed his glance. "It'll be okay, Jacob. Just lean on me. It's a slow dance."

* * *

A/N: _That's all, folks!_

Epilogue Theme/Story Theme: Zero 7, _Swing. _(Three months ago, I was driving to my favorite coffee shop when this song came on. Before it was over, I had the basic story of _Amuck. _Go figure!)

A very sincere thanks to those of you who were kind enough to take a few minutes and write a review or send a PM. Writing these stories is work, mostly lonely work, and hearing from readers is the only way of connecting with those who are sharing the world you are creating/inhabiting. _Ars gratia artis, _yes, but a human response is a welcome thing.

A special thank you to Beckster1213, Chesterton, David Carner, and WvonB for pre-reading chapters or for conversations.

I appreciate folks sticking around while I yet again (to borrow a term from Ezra Pound) _underwent _a novel.

Parting thoughts, reactions? Even if you are reading after the story's been completed, I'd love to hear from you!

Zettel

* * *

Exit Music: Zero 7, _End Theme_


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